The Cheesemaker's House by Jane Cable

suntanned wrinkles. “That would be marvellous.”
    At the word garden, William stands and stretches. “Come on then,” I tell him, “but no showing me up by digging in the flowerbeds.”
    Margaret bends down and scratches his ears. “So this is William,” she says. “He is rather handsome.” The dog looks up at her adoringly.
    As we make our way around the property Margaret positively bubbles with advice, most of which flies straight over my head. It is beginning to dawn on me that gardening is something I’m supposed to do now that I live in a village and as I’ve never been much interested before it’s going to be another rather steep learning curve.
    As we progress along the borders Margaret is amazed at the variety of plants. Most of them are becoming choked by weeds but I have to admit they’re still very pretty; blues, pinks and whites in all shapes and sizes, fighting their way out from a tangle of green.
    â€œHelp yourself to whatever you’d like,” I tell her. “It looks as though there’s far too much here.”
    â€œI have the opposite problem to you,” she laughs, “you’ve got too much space and I’ve not got enough of it. I’ve even encroached on Owen’s garden to grow the cut flowers for church.”
    â€œIsn’t Owen much of a gardener?”
    She shakes her head. “He doesn’t have time, dear. That young man works so hard – he has no time for a life of his own at all.”
    I nod. After all, the café is open six days a week. I suppose the rest of his time is spent walking Kylie for Adam and being nice to waifs and strays like me.
    At the very end of the plot, half overgrown, we come across some raspberry canes. Margaret is ecstatic.
    â€œThese are late ones, Alice, and it looks like you’ll have a terrific crop – as long as you put nets over to keep the birds off.”
    I look at them dubiously. “And do something about those nettles.”
    â€œThat won’t take you long, dear, as long as you’ve got a good pair of gloves,” and I know I have another job to add to my ever growing list.
    It is as she’s waxing lyrical about the greenhouse that it occurs to me. “Margaret,” I say, stopping her in midstream, “If you wanted it for your plants I’d be more than happy. I’ll get someone to fix the glass and it’ll be fine.”
    Her face lights up. “Alice – really? I’ve never had space for a greenhouse myself.”
    â€œOf course.” I indicate the rest of the area with my arm, “and if there’s any other part of this wilderness you could use...”
    â€œYou wouldn’t mind me trekking through your garden unannounced?”
    â€œNot at all,” I reply. “You could even check up on how badly I’m doing with the raspberries.”
    Her look of unrestrained delight fills me with genuine pleasure. “You are an absolute sweetheart,” she tells me. I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before.

Chapter Twelve
    All the magazines say that soft furnishings are the most exciting part of doing up a house, but I can’t say I’m that that interested so I end up mooching inconclusively around Northallerton for more than half a morning. Probably out of desperation, the woman in the haberdashery suggests I take away a book of swatches to think about over a cup of coffee. She makes me realise that I’ve been avoiding Caffé Bianco, but at the same time it just isn’t in me to go anywhere else.
    The door is propped open to let in the breeze – or maybe let out the heady mix of coffee and baking. It’s certainly drawn a few people in; a handful of young mothers have pushed two tables together in the corner and barricaded themselves in with pushchairs. An elderly couple gaze out of the window, not talking.
    Adam appears when I press the bell on the