Saving Saffron Sweeting Read Online Free Page B

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.
    ‘What would you like, love?’ The waitress greeted me
as she cleared my table of the debris from previous occupants.
    I ordered a pot of tea and a sausage roll. The latter
wasn’t strictly necessary, but the stress of my business had
meant I’d skipped too many meals in recent months, and since
discovering James’s affair I seemed to have lost my appetite
completely. If I was going to keep morale up, I’d better eat.
The tea came immediately, strong and hot. As she returned with my
food, the waitress spotted the hotel information.
    ‘You’re visiting, then?’ She put down a fork
wrapped in a paper napkin.
    ‘Yes …’ I wasn’t about to share my
circumstances. ‘Just looking for a place to stay for a few
days. Somewhere near Cambridge, maybe.’
    ‘Ah, you’re visiting the colleges. Lovely.’
She’d made an assumption, but it didn’t matter.
‘You might look at the Red Lion in Whittlesford. My friend
runs it and it’s very good.’
    ‘Thanks.’ My attention was on the tempting sausage
roll. Sure enough, moist, spicy sausage meat was wrapped in warm,
golden pastry which was flaky on the outside but gooey on the
inside. Heaven. The tea was also reviving my spirits. We Brits
don’t really do therapy; we just put the kettle on. I turned
my thoughts back to my pile of literature. There it was: a leaflet
for the inn she’d mentioned.
    The Red Lion was founded as a priory in the thirteenth
century
, I read.
Rooms are comfortably furnished and often
have character features such as low-level beams and wonky
floors.
Yes, they actually said ‘wonky’.
Eight
miles south of Cambridge, Whittlesford is a classic English village
where cricket is played regularly on the green. The Red Lion offers
a range of home-cooked food, but you may also enjoy the Tickell
Arms and the Bees in the Wall.
    Jem would definitely get a kick out of pub names like that. I
studied the pictures and decided the Red Lion was perfect. I would
call them from my car.
    The man who answered their phone, however, had other ideas.
‘Sorry, we’re fully booked. There’s an air show
at Duxford.’
    ‘Oh.’ Nerdy plane-spotters had trampled all over my
cricket-gazing fantasy. I was deeply disappointed.
    ‘But I can recommend my cousin’s bed and breakfast.
Oak House. She’s just a few miles outside Cambridge, on the
way to Newmarket.’
    ‘Er, right.’ Did everyone in the English hospitality
industry know each other?
    ‘She does a first class breakfast. I can give you her
number.’
    Well, I thought, for top notch bacon and eggs it might be worth
a try, especially to delay facing the music with my parents.
‘What village is that?’
    ‘Saffron Sweeting. Do you know it?’
    I didn’t need Jem here to proclaim that this coincidence
was a huge omen.
    ‘No,’ I told him, ‘but I think I’m about
to.’
~~~
    It was just after lunch time when I drove into
Saffron Sweeting, a little early for checking in, but I’d
phoned ahead and been told to come on over. Oak House was a wide,
cream-painted building, with pairs of latticed windows
symmetrically placed each side of the front door. I couldn’t
tell how old it was, but the front wall bulged a little and was
restrained by cross-shaped wall ties. Moss covered the patchwork
tiles of the roof, which sloped at a friendly angle over the eaves.
As I got out of my car, I caught a summery, floral scent, possibly
from the clematis which was climbing around the front door. To the
side of the house was an impressive tree – undoubtedly the
oak – and in the garden I glimpsed a handful of extremely
plump chickens.
    ‘You made it! Come in, dear, come in!’
    The owner of Oak House appeared to be in her mid fifties. She
had shoulder-length grey hair pulled back by a wide band, and a
rosy complexion. I thought it was