Coming Home to Wishington Bay. Maxine Morrey

it feels less like work, don’t you find?’

      ‘Yes … I suppose so.’ I enjoyed what I did but there was no doubt in my mind that it most definitely felt like work.

      ‘Do you garden, Holly?’

      ‘Me? Oh no. I sort of deadheaded a few of Gigi’s flowers the other day but to be honest I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

      ‘We all learn by doing. Bertie and I had no idea what we were doing when we bought this place. It was all just lawn and that was about as much as we could cope with.’

      ‘But now you have all this,’ I said, my eyes roaming over the riotous colours surrounding the gleaming white of the freshly painted house.

      ‘We do. But there’s been a lot of trial and error. Gigi’s garden is lovely. She wasn’t especially into faffing like I am, so I helped her choose some nice low-maintenance plants. You shouldn’t have too much to do, but I’m always here if you ever want to ask anything. Bertie will laugh and tell you not to wake the dragon.’ She had a fabulous laugh that made you want to join her. ‘I’m not quite sure if I should be offended by the mention of the word dragon when he says that but when you’ve been married as long as we have …’ She flapped her hand and laughed again.

      ‘That’s really kind of you to offer, thank you. I appreciate that. I’ll probably just tidy it a little bit. Gabe has been good enough to keep an eye on it I think – it’s not as overgrown as I thought it might be so that’s one less thing to worry about before getting the estate agents round.’

      ‘Gabe was a godsend for Betty. I think she enjoyed having him there to fuss over.’

      ‘I think you’re right.’

      ‘But estate agents? Does that mean you’re not staying?’

      ‘Unfortunately not. I live in London.’

      ‘It’s a perfect weekend retreat,’ she said, a twinkle in her eye.

      I smiled, seeing immediately how well my grandmother and Eleanor would have got on, imagining them chatting as we were now, as Gigi took her almost daily stroll into town.

      ‘It would be. I mean, it is. It’s just … I work a lot.’

      Eleanor tilted her head a little. ‘Too much, from what I hear.’

      ‘Gigi always says that … I mean said that.’ I swallowed hard at my inadvertent tense error.

      Eleanor reached over the low wall and patted my hand. ‘It’s not just Betty who told me that about you. We go to Ned and Carrie’s restaurant all the time.’

      ‘Oh. I see.’

      ‘But it’s nice to see you taking some time here anyway.’

      ‘Yes. I’m actually on sabbatical from my job for a few months, so this seemed the perfect place to spend it.’

      ‘Well, maybe we’ll grow on you.’ She squeezed my hand, smiling.

      ‘Oh, I already know I love it here. I just have to be practical. Unfortunately.’

      ‘Practical can be a little over-rated.’ There was that glint again.

      I shook my head, laughing. ‘You’re as bad as my grandmother was.’

      ‘That’s probably why we were such good friends.’

      I smiled. ‘I’m so sorry.’

      ‘Oh, my dear.’ She cupped my face for a moment with one hand, both linked in our grief of missing someone who had meant such a lot to each of us.

      ‘Off to explore the village then?’ A man’s voice drifted out before a tall, distinguished-looking gentleman appeared from behind one of the large borders. ‘I hope my Eleanor hasn’t been interrogating you about your garden.’ His wife rolled her eyes but the love of decades showed on both their faces.

      ‘Bertie. Pleased to meet you.’

      ‘Holly, and you.’

      ‘This is Betty’s granddaughter.’

      ‘I thought it might be. You have your grandmother’s eyes.’

      ‘Doesn’t she?’ Eleanor said, turning to him. It wasn’t the first time I’d been told this. Personally, I’d never seen it. I mean they’d been the same colour but Gigi’s had always been full of laughter and mischief. Mine, not so much.

      ‘Stocking up the larder?’ he asked, indicating the basket.

      ‘Yes. It’s ages since I had a good nose around the village so I thought I’d take advantage.’

      ‘Capital idea.’

      I smiled at the slightly dated language, which seemed absolutely correct coming from this upright gent, with his military bearing and hair as white as his house.

      ‘Well, it was lovely to meet you both.’

      ‘And you, Holly. And don’t forget, we’re always around. If you need anything, just pop up.’

      ‘Thank you. I will.’

      We said our goodbyes and I headed on up the lane and into the village, pondering over the encounter. I’d been in my flat in London for over seven years and I could count on one hand the number of words I’d exchanged with any of my neighbours. I’d never even been inclined to. I, and they, were always in such a rush. Nobody had time to talk. But here in Wishington Bay, things were different. Very different. And worryingly, I rather liked it.

      Having found the café Carrie had insisted I try, I ordered a croissant and a decaf coffee. I’d begun to wonder if the symptoms I’d been getting, the shortness of breath, the tingling, panicky feeling as the room spun around me, might be something to do with the copious amounts of caffeine I funnelled into my system day after day. Perhaps it was trying to tell me something. Probably the same thing my doctor would have told me had I been truthful on my last company check-up about the amount of caffeine I drank and the amount of exercise I did – or rather didn’t do. But still. I was trying now. I’d walked into the village and I was on decaf. Baby steps.

      The croissant was the softest, butteriest one I had had outside a bistro in France and I decided it was probably a good thing I wasn’t staying because having discovered this fact could be very bad for my waistline. The book remained in my basket but I occupied myself with watching the village awaken outside the window – shutters going up, awnings being wound down, ready to protect from the strengthening sun, and signs and tables being put out on to the pavements. There was bustle but unlike the chaotic type I was used to in London, this was gentle and almost calming. It was comforting.

      Leaving the café, I headed further into the village, peering in the windows of the shops, stopping in one that sold locally produced goods, including some of the cutest children’s wear I’d ever seen. Three baby outfits in my basket later and I was back on my way, passing The Lighthouse. I was glad to see the pub still thriving, having seen so many around the country fall into debt and close. A board advertised teas and coffees, as well as some delicious-sounding specials, and of course the inevitable sports matches. From what Ned had told me, they’d cleverly screened off one area for this activity so that it managed to maintain its country pub atmosphere while still doing what it needed to help bring in the custom. Holidaymakers especially didn’t like to miss a big game so although the owners had been somewhat hesitant initially to make this change, they’d done it well and reaped the benefits.

      ‘Morning!’ A man smiled and nodded as he watered the window boxes that lined all the sills of the pub on this side.

      ‘Morning.’

      ‘Going to be another beautiful day,’ he said, his Barbadian accent melodic while his smile, wide and bright, brought out my own.

      ‘It certainly looks that way.’

      ‘I’m never wrong on these things!’ He laughed and I couldn’t