Maggie noticed her before her name was spoken.
The curd, the brooch, the handbag held too tightly, as if it might speak out of turn.
Mavis Holt turned up at WI on a Thursday. Netta escorted her with the solemnity usually reserved for guest speakers and new compost bins. She’d just moved into the cottage by the west path—the one with the crooked gate and the rosemary that still tried, despite itself. She brought two jars of homemade curd and wore a brooch shaped like a swallow.
Audrey Crenshaw pursed her lips. “Lovely turnout. Remarkably so,” she said, her eyes pausing just long enough on Mavis.
There was a pause. Maggie noted it—the fractional beat between “Mavis Holt” and the nod that followed. The way Mavis held her handbag with both hands, thumbs pressed together like punctuation.
She sat two seats down, adjusted her skirt, folded into the background with practiced ease.
Maggie didn’t comment. But she was already measuring what might be required.
At the break, Audrey cornered her near the raffle table.
“I thought I’d include Mavis in the newsletter. You’re good with people who don’t overshare—saves everyone trouble.”
Maggie looked at the raffle tin instead.
“She has the look of someone discreet,” Audrey added, as if that were a compliment.
Maggie didn’t answer. But later, she found herself at Mavis’s gate. Not to dig. Just to make sure nothing would be taken.
Mavis offered tea. Strong. With milk. The cup rattled slightly as she set it down. Somewhere nearby, a clock ticked too loudly.
“I was married once,” she said, before Maggie asked. “Briefly. We don’t speak of him.”
Maggie nodded.
“There was… someone else. Later. But that was quieter.”
The silence settled—deliberate, like a note held too long.
“I could say you’re a gardener,” Maggie offered. “Mention the lemon curd. Skip the rest.”
Mavis smiled, small and true. “You could say I used to sing,” she said. “Small venues. Church halls. That’s where I met her.”
Her. Not named. Not pressed.
Maggie glanced at the brooch. “Would you want a line about it?”
Mavis’s fingers drifted toward it, then rested on the table instead.
“She carved it,” she said.
That was all.
The newsletter blurb was short:
Member Spotlight: Mavis Holt
New to Lower Tissington, Mavis enjoys gardening, preserves, and walking the west path at dusk. A former singer, she has a particular fondness for birdsong. Her lemon curd is currently undefeated—for now.
No photo. No lineage. No reference to the past. Just enough to offer a shape without forcing the outline.
Two days later, Mavis slipped a folded paper into Maggie’s pocket at the bakery queue. A song sheet—The Water Is Wide—with penciled harmony notes and a tiny swallow drawn in the corner.
That evening, Maggie made tea, didn’t finish it, and opened her grey notebook—hardcover, a little warped, pages soft from weather and use.
She flipped past fig bar diplomacy, spectral benches, and one entry she’d promised not to title. Her hand rested there longer than usual. She considered leaving this one blank, or filing it late. Then she wrote, slowly.
Notebook Entry
Casefile #26: Just Enough
Observation: Some truths unfold sideways. Like petals, or the way one hand rests near another.
Outcome: Profile accepted. Curd praised. Story withheld.
Additional note: She didn’t need to tell me. But she did. Quietly. Like someone used to being misread.
She tapped the page once. Closed the book.
On her way to let the dog out, she noticed a sachet of herbs tucked near the gatepost. Netta, she guessed. A trace, not a claim.
Outside, a bird called low from the hedgerow. Not a song. Not quite.
But Maggie knew it all the same.