Was the charming young man visiting their neighbour really a long-lost relative, or was something fishy going on?
BY CHRISTINE SUTTON
Ellen stirred the mince, carrots and onions browning in the pan. Cottage pie, always a winner. In the front room, Francesca was practising another of her exam pieces, a lilting composition by Erik Satie, his
Gnossienne No.1.
Expressively though her granddaughter played the piece on her keyboard, Ellen wished she could give her access to the sort of instrument she had at school. Surely a grand piano, even a baby grand, would give her the best chance of success next week?
When the music abruptly tapered off, she went to investigate. Francesca was staring out of the window.
“Don’t stop playing, love. That sounded wonderful.”
Francesca beckoned her closer.
“What do you make of this, Gran?”
Ellen stood behind her, but all she could see across the village green was a blue delivery van parked outside Laura Drysdale’s pretty whitewashed cottage.
“I don’t see anything unusual.”
“The logo,” Francesca said. “It’s a fish van. Mrs Drysdale’s a vegetarian. She gave pickles and jams to the school fête and told me all the ingredients were home-grown because ‘taste matters even more when you’re vegetarian’.”
Ellen shook her head, still unsure of her granddaughter’s point.
“So if she is a dedicated veggie – and she said she had been since her teens – that would mean she doesn’t eat fish.”
“I see what you’re saying,” Ellen said, her curiosity piqued. “And there’s no one else to cater for now, so why deliver fish to someone with no use for it?”
Francesca shrugged, her attention already back on her keyboard.
“It’s probably just a visitor. Made me wonder, that’s all.”
Ellen squeezed her shoulder.
“Honestly, village life is turning you into a right little Miss Marple.”
Francesca grinned.
“Can’t think where I get that from.”
Twenty minutes later, Ellen popped her head back around the door. “I’m just nipping out to the corner shop for some runners, love. Tea’s nearly done. I won’t be long.”
“OK, Gran. Smells great.”
Ellen gazed at her fondly, thinking how like her mother she looked since she’d had her long, dark hair cut. It had been three years since they’d lost Rachel in a road accident and the pain never went away. Swallowing hard, Ellen buttoned her jacket and went outside.
