Free The Cat Next Door by Marian Babson Page B

she? Even Aunt Milly had found a way of escape with her endless Regency romances.
    All she had was exhaustion. Gravity – or was it emotional pain? – dragged at her, weakening her knees, threatening to pull her to the ground. Not here. Not now. She forced herself to straighten her back, stiffen her knees and move along the row of enticing stalls.
    The overpowering, not-so-enticing – at least, to her – smells from a pet food stall nearly finished her. The stallholder stared at her uneasily, as she swayed and rested a hand on the edge of the barrow for support.
    Giving the woman a reassuring smile, Margot picked up a catnip mouse and paid for it. Perhaps it would help her make her peace with the offended Tikki.
    A gust of wind carried the odour of frying onions to mingle with that of bonemeal and dried offal. Margot tried to hold her breath as she moved away hurriedly, not pausing until she had reached one of the flower stalls where a profusion of blooms promised her that it was safe to breathe again. That was the trouble with markets – parts of them were picturesque only so long as you couldn’t smell them.
    There was still so much of the market to explore; she had not yet reached the Market Square itself, where the street divided and the stalls followed both byways down to the old bell tower. If only she weren’t feeling so increasingly weak.
    Food! Although her throat closed against the thought, she recognised that she needed food. And a place to sit down for a while. She had skipped breakfast, after all. At the back of her mind, another memory had hovered, of another familiar place she wished to revisit. The short walk to get there would help to clear her head and her lungs and she might be able to manage more than a cup of tea when she got there.
    She crossed the street determinedly and headed for the medieval tithe barn that had been moved close to the
city centre and transformed into a self-service restaurant, popular for lunch and teas.
    â€˜Oh, yes, let’s go to Waterend Barn!’ Claudia was back. ‘They have the best loos in town.’
    â€˜The food is good, too.’ Chloe followed in her wake, disapproving, distrusting, suspecting her twin was just going to use the loo and not patronise the restaurant.
    What must it have been like for Chloe to be linked for life by an accident of birth to a twin she must inescapably love, but largely disapproved of? Would life have been easier for her if she had inherited the same bubbly personality? Or would that have led to even greater sibling rivalry?
    Margot took a tray from the rack and joined the queue moving slowly along the counter. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to eat anything but, suddenly, everything looked tempting. In a fit of nursery nostalgia, she chose roast lamb with bubble-and-squeak. Deciding that nostalgia bestowed the right to be gastronomically incorrect, she indicated a Yorkshire pudding to be added to her plate and nodded for gravy to be ladled over all. She exercised restraint by taking a cup of black coffee and carried her tray the length of the long vaulted room to one of the tables by the great fireplace at the end.
    She unloaded her tray and placed it on an empty table, as the others were doing, sat down and looked around with satisfaction. It was as she had remembered it. Oh, perhaps the flags and banners had been replaced – the colours looked brighter – but they were still suspended from the dark beams. A comforting sense of history and continuity enfolded her; the babble of familiar accents soothed her. So much had changed, it was good to find something that had remained the same. Including the familiar comfort food. She cut a piece of lamb, piled some bubble-and-squeak on the back of her fork, added a dollop of gravy and closed her eyes to savour the blend of flavours melting in her mouth. She was beginning to feel stronger again. She had needed
this opportunity to sit down, the