Page 39 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“Bye, Vicky!” Jayde trilled. “See you at the weekend.”
“But . . . what . . . ?”
“Jerry’s offered me a lift back to London. Isn’t that sweet of him? You know how I hate the train.” And with that she was off, trundling her suitcase down the path.
Vicky could only stare, lost for words, as Jeremy piled Jayde’s suitcase in the boot with his own, and the pair of them settled into the front of the grey BMW, not even bothering with a wave of farewell as they drove off down the lane.
So... what did all that mean — if it meant anything at all? Was it entirely innocent or was there something going on — absurd as it seemed?
Whatever, she had made up her mind. Climbing the stairs to Molly’s bedroom she stood for a moment gazing out over the garden, the fields, the sea. Then with a decisive movement she twisted off her diamond ring and left it in the trinket tray on the dressing table.
Chapter Eight
Cricket. It wasn’t her favourite sport, but Vicky felt she deserved a break from sorting through Molly’s things. And rattling around in the cottage by herself, there was a risk that she might begin to have second thoughts about Jeremy.
The cricket club was down a rough path just past the church — the number of cars parked along the hedge and in the car park told her that the match was a popular event.
A wooden gate stood wide open — apparently there was no charge to get in. The pitch was a wide green oval, ringed by trees in their early summer leaf, providing welcome shade for the spectators ranged around the boundary line on deckchairs and picnic blankets.
The game had already started. The two teams seemed to be made up of whoever they could scratch together — grandsons and granddads, some who looked as if they might risk a heart attack if they tried running between the stumps, and several women. Some of the players wore traditional cricket whites, the others an assortment of shorts and T-shirts and baseball caps.
She recognised the figure on the far side of the pitch at once. Tom, on the fielding team. He had glanced briefly in her direction, but she wasn’t sure if he had noticed her. She wasn’t going to watch him — of course not. She was just here to watch the play.
The bowler ran in and threw his pitch, and the umpire called, “No ball.” There was a bit of mild grumbling, then the wicketkeeper tossed the ball back to the bowler.
He walked back to his start point and ran in again. The batsman got his bat to it, but it wasn’t much of a hit — it bounced and rolled, and one of the fielders picked it up. The batsmen hadn’t even bothered to try running.
The pavilion was a wooden hut with a veranda along the front, and wooden benches where the rest of the batting side were awaiting their turn at the wicket. A long trestle table had been set up in front of it, with plates of sandwiches, finger rolls and cupcakes, rows of cardboard cups, and a stainless-steel tea urn.
Debbie was pouring tea. As she spotted Vicky she waved. “Hi! Come to cheer our boys on?”
“I didn’t think you were supposed to cheer at cricket matches — isn’t it just a smattering of polite applause?”
Debbie laughed, shaking her head. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Thank you.”
A cheer went up as the batsman scored a single. “Ah, that means George Evans is up. He’s their best player.”
That was soon apparent as he began racking up runs on the makeshift scoreboard — a double and two boundaries in one over.
“Come on, lads — get him out,” Debbie urged, bouncing excitedly.
Vicky smiled to herself. Sweet, shy Debbie? Not when it came to the village cricket team, apparently.
A couple of customers had arrived, keeping Debbie busy for a few moments serving tea and sandwiches. When it was quiet again she came back to stand with Vicky. “Didn’t your sister and your boyfriend want to come and watch the cricket?”
Vicky shrugged in careless dismissal. “Oh, they’ve gone home.”
“Oh . . .”
If Debbie had noticed that she wasn’t wearing her ring, she made no comment.
“How’s your mum?” Vicky asked to divert the conversation.
“Feeling a bit better.” Debbie lifted a cake tin from under the table and unloaded the contents to fill another plate with her fresh, home-baked scones. “She’s getting very restless — she always likes to be doing, she was never one to sit watching telly and doing her knitting.”
Vicky laughed. “So who’s minding the café today — or are you closed?”
