Poppy’s naturally rosy face turned to a shade of dark carnation. ‘Not in the garden, but in the summerhouse, actually. There was one of those wide, wooden-framed loungers at the back, practically like a bed, and that should have given me a clue because you can’t leave cotton-covered cushions out in all weathers, can you? If I wasn’t so stupid, I’d have realised they must have been there for a purpose.’
‘That was a bit of a giveaway,’ I agreed, keeping my face straight with an effort.
‘But it didn’t occur to me straight away and everything was fine at first: we started lunch and were getting on really well, just like we did in the pub. Then suddenly he said that there was a good reason why our first real date was taking place in the garden: it was because his wife was always there and he wanted her to meet me and continue to feel part of his life.’
While she was talking I had been stacking the parcels of Wishes into the huge and entirely unstylish shopping trolley I used to transport them to the post office, but I looked up at this and said incredulously: ‘His wife’s the gardener? I thought you said he was a widower?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said to him. So then he said, yes, he was a widower, but he felt his wife’s presence everywhere in the garden because she loved it so much. And what’s more, Chloe, he said her ashes were sprinkled all around the roses next to the summerhouse where we were sitting!’
‘That’s pretty bizarre, to say the least, Pops. I bet the roses are healthy, though?’
‘It’s a bit hard to tell at this time of year,’ Poppy said, starting to get her sense of humour back. ‘I was gobsmacked; but then I said, if he felt that his wife was sort of hanging about watching, didn’t he find it off-putting bringing new girlfriends back, and he said no, he was sure she approved.’
‘I’m not surprised you made an excuse and left!’
‘Oh, but there’s more! He said the reason he’s sure she approves is because they had an open marriage – and open in more ways than one, because they both liked having sex in the open air, even if not always with each other.’
‘He didn’t!’
‘He certainly did – he came right out with it, as if it was really everyday. That’s why they had the summerhouse built: to screen their activities. The back of it is towards the road. And then, Chloe, I was so startled I blurted out that I remembered his lonely hearts advert saying he liked outdoor pursuits and now I could see exactly where he was coming from! And unfortunately that seemed to encourage him, because he pulled his chair round to my side of the table and said he thought a riding mistress sounded fun and he was always open to new ideas. Then luckily Felix rang, and that’s when I said I had to go. I’m sure I left with more speed than manners.’
‘Serves him right – and he looked so nice too,’ I commiserated.
Having got it all off her chest, Poppy was beginning to find it funny. ‘It’s a pity he didn’t have a date with Mum instead of me. She’d have given him a run for his money,’ she said, with one of her sudden giggles.
‘You never know with Janey,’ I agreed. ‘He could have been thrown, hogtied and branded before he knew where he was.’
‘Still, it’s taught me a lesson. I’m starting to think you and Felix are right, and I’ll never find a man this way. They’ll all be weird.’
‘Maybe that’s because all men are weird and most women simply settle for the least weird one they can find,’ I suggested cynically.
‘No, they’re not. Felix isn’t weird, for a start,’ she protested.
‘Any man who is so engrossed in books that half the time he doesn’t notice that he’s buttoned his jacket up wrongly, or is wearing odd shoes, is just a little on the weird side, even if he’s nice, don’t you think?’
‘Lovable eccentricities are different,’ she said firmly, then hesitated and added, ‘Chloe, have you thought lately that Felix seems to be…sort of looking at you in a different way? I thought I was imagining it, but then the other night…’
I sighed. ‘Oh, you’ve noticed? I thought I was imagining it, too – I hoped I was. Now he’s suddenly decided he wants to settle down, he seems to have fixed on me, for some mad reason. I think it dates back to last year when he bought those old Kate Bush albums at auction in a mixed box with some books, and decided I looked like her picture on the cover. It made him see me in a different light.’
‘Yes, I think you might be right,’ Poppy said thoughtfully. ‘It was about then I began to notice it. I expect it made him suddenly realise how pretty you are too – and you do get on well together.’
I ignored the pretty bit, which is just Poppy being loyal, and said, ‘Of course we do, all three of us get on well, we always have – so it would be just as logical to have a ménage à trois, wouldn’t it?’
She grinned. ‘When you put it like that, I can see how ridiculous it is. He’s been a big-brother figure all our lives, it would take quite a bit of doing to make us see him in a new light.’
‘Yes, some very strong magic!’
Poppy giggled again: ‘Actually, I’ve twice found Felix watching an old clip of Kate Bush on YouTube, when she’s singing that “Wuthering Heights” song, so she’s magic as far as he’s concerned.’
‘I absolutely do not look like Kate Bush!’
‘Most people wouldn’t mind if they did. I certainly wouldn’t!’
‘I think I just have an inbuilt aversion to having a doppel-gänger. Come on, let’s go through into the cottage and have coffee. I’ll post these later – there aren’t any urgent ones.’
I got out some truffles that I’d been experimenting with. Though I only sell hollow chocolate shapes, I still like to make (and eat) the filled sort – one shelf of my fridge is usually full of them. And there’s nothing quite like chocolate for cheering the troubled mind. Poppy went off back to Stirrups with most of her bounce restored.
I trundled my trolley off to the post office with my parcels, trying to think of a way of transferring Felix’s interest to Poppy and of making her see him in the light of a lover, not a brother.
But since there was absolutely no chance of making her look remotely like Kate Bush, or him like George Clooney, I was on a bit of a sticky wicket.
Poppy told me that Hebe Winter had received a brief note from the bishop’s secretary giving her the date when the new vicar was to take up his duties, which was much sooner than everyone had expected.
So when two huge removal vans rumbled by on the Friday afternoon of that week, heading in the direction of the old vicarage, sheer naked curiosity drove me to walk up there on the pretext of buying a loaf from the Spar on the Green, even though I realised it was probably only the new incumbent’s possessions arriving, rather than the man himself.
The drive of the vicarage is quite short, most of the large grounds, which back onto Angel Lane, being behind the house. From the open front gates I could see the vans parked in front of the open porch and men carrying things in through the big central door, though mostly just quite ordinary-looking furniture, apart from a huge, dark, carved wooden headboard that looked very old. But it was hard to tell from that distance and anyway, I saw only that much because the wind lifted the blanket that was draped over it for protection.
There