Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

First Night

"To Fleckney Woulds," Anya answered.

"Let me give you a lift," he immediately offered.

Varya threw Anya a questioning look.

"Weren't you going the other way?" Anya asked, and he grinned.

"Sally asked me to come again, apparently she'd cleared it out with Martin," he said with a shrug. "But she didn't specify what time."

That explained why Sally hadn't objected to Anya and Varya going out and leaving Henry behind - and why the woman was so dressed up. That top was surely too revealing for playing with Henry on the floor, not that Anya expected Sally to do much of that.

"Yeah, ta," Anya said and opened a passenger door for Varya. "We'd love a lift."

Once they were in, Whitlaw started the car and made a U-turn.

"Do you want a box for your cat?" he asked, throwing Varya a glance in the rear view mirror. "I might even have an old jumper we can put on the bottom."

Varya nodded eagerly. "Ta. Persimmon doesn't like staying at the farm without us."

"I need ingredients for my baking," Anya said hurriedly, changing the topic of the conversation. After all, it was still unclear what was going on between Sally and James Whitlaw - and if she were honest, Anya properly didn't want to know. As her Russian-Tatar mother used to say, 'The less you know, the better you sleep.' "And some cleaning supplies. And medication. Where would I get all of it in Fleckney?"

"For cleaning supplies and medication I'd try Mr. Lewis' shop," Whitlaw answered, confidently manoeuvring his pick-up truck along the snowy road. "As for your flour, I couldn't say. Do you need any special kind? The grocer's is Mr. Tate's shop, but it's pricey. There's a supermarket in Abernathy, but that's in the next county."

By now, Anya was familiar with Mr. Tate's priciness. Sally didn't cook, and the fridge in the farm kitchen was always full of half-finished containers of Mrs. Tate's bangers and mash, pies, and assorted curries. Anya was trying to take some of the cooking onto herself, between changing Henry's nappies, and scrubbing and disinfecting every possible surface in the house. Based on her experience of working in a deli, she'd say the pricing was fair, though, since the ingredients were obviously local and fresh, the layers of meat in the pies were generous, and curries were delish. Anya simply didn't want these expenses to be mentioned in a conversation with Martin or Sally later. It had been almost twenty years since she could afford a meal that cost even a half of what Mrs. Tate charged for a slice of her leek, mushroom, and gruyère quiche.

"Could you drop us off at Mr. Lewis'?" Anya asked Whitlaw with a sigh. "We'll walk to Mr. Tate's after that for a few cooked dishes. I'll get flour some other time, when I get a chance to go to Abernathy."

"Sure," Whitlaw agreed easily. "I'll go with you, how about that? And I'll give you a lift back too. You were right, I was going the other way."

He boomed a jolly laugh, and Anya sighed again. Clearly, she once again missed her chance to find a proper job.

***

Back at the farm, Anya quickly loaded the ever so grumpy Henry in his pram, and pushed him outside, to give Sally and Whitlaw an opportunity to do– whatever it was they were going to do. Considering how eagerly Varya dashed out after her, Anya wasn't the only one who'd noticed the charged atmosphere. Thankfully, Anya had been seeing more and more success at fixing Henry's routine, and he was soon soundly asleep.

Anya stopped, locked the brakes on the pram, and rubbed her hands together. She'd left one of her mittens in the red-haired man's cottage, and her jacket was too thin for a sleeve or a pocket to provide enough warmth for her fingers. The wind from the fields was biting. Varya climbed on the nearest low fence and perched on it. The girl looked like a pitiful bird, with her hair sticking out from under a hat in wisps, and her bony shoulders raised.