Saving Saffron Sweeting

Saving Saffron Sweeting - Chapter 3

It’s a good thing Jem was no longer breast-feeding, as our red wine consumption that evening would probably have got Sebastian drunk too.

However, by ten the next morning, we were only slightly hung-over as she drove me to a local car rental office. Squeezed between a launderette and a branch of Barclays bank, they appeared to have just three cars outside. Sure enough, I got the midget-sized jaunty yellow one. Never mind: it would use less petrol and inflict less collateral damage whenever I tried to park it.

‘Are you okay?’ Jem looked anxiously at my pale face as I heaved my suitcase from her Mini.

‘Yes, I think so.’ I tried to keep my voice brave and normal. ‘Seeing you has helped no end.’ I wasn’t generous enough to include Sebastian in this compliment. He was, of course, now sleeping angelically in his car seat, recovering from his nocturnal wailing which had roused Jem multiple times. I had been glad of my freebie airline earplugs and had stayed welded to the sofa bed.

‘I’m still not quite sure what the plan is,’ Jem said, as we made a cursory attempt to check my car for scratches.

Our tipsy map reading of the night before had degenerated into finding English villages with silly names. We’d started with Six Mile Bottom and progressed via Ugley to Piddletrenthide.

‘Well,’ I smiled, ‘Bacon End was tempting, but on balance I think Saffron Sweeting just has the edge.’

‘Really? You’re actually heading for a place you’ve never been? I was just mucking around last night, you know.’

‘It’s okay, I’m pulling your leg. I think I’ll drive up through Cambridgeshire on the quieter roads, and maybe stop for a look at some of the villages. If they’re all horrible, I’ll swallow my pride and call my mother.’

Jem handed me last night’s road atlas and a Kit Kat. ‘Okay, well, phone me, wherever you decide. And let me know when you’re ready to meet for afternoon tea.’

‘Absolutely. Say hi to Harry.’ I leaned into her car and gave Seb a parting wave. Jem gave me another of her big hugs and I squeezed her back in silent thanks.

***

I don’t believe in fate, or omens, but I admit that sometimes life moves in mysterious ways. Despite our antics of the previous evening, I had no intention of spending the night anywhere with a wacky name. Things didn’t quite work out like that, though.

The London skies had been smoggy and oppressive, but as I turned off the M25 to head north, the sun came out and I could appreciate the green countryside. At Bishops Stortford, I left the motorway and continued on the old Cambridge road. The gentle winding from village to village was a soothing change of pace. Uneven hedges and lush fields lined the road, a few rabbits were playing on the verge, and I passed handmade signs including Pick Your Own Strawberries and Village Fête Saturday.

By the time I reached Saffron Walden, I was ready for a break and some elevenses. I already knew the bustling market town was named from growing the saffron crocus, which yielded an expensive yellow dye. In our research the previous night, Jem and I had learned that Saffron Walden’s success had overshadowed Saffron Sweeting’s earlier fame. By the seventeenth century, the newcomer was dominant while Saffron Sweeting languished. I’m pretty sure yellow dye is no longer a big part of Saffron Walden’s economy, but it still enjoys a cheerful affluence.

Having inched my appropriately saffron-coloured vehicle into a parking space, my first purchase was a new phone. My US cell phone always refused to work in England and, in any case, a different number would mean James couldn’t call. To be honest, I desperately wanted to know if he had tried to reach me, but I squashed that thought and headed for the tourist information office. There, I armed myself with Things to Do in East Anglia and some leaflets on local bed and breakfasts. These I took to a cafe, to ponder my next move.