The Barn on Half Moon Hill

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Hi, Cariad. Hi, Franco.’ Becky and Lacey had pushed through the photographers and were standing in front of them, boyfriends in tow.

  ‘Can we have a photo with Franco and all the friends?’ asked someone holding up a camera.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Becky, clapping her hands like a small child who had just found a golden ticket in a Wonka bar.

  ‘I don’t see any of Cariad’s friends here,’ replied Franco, craning his neck to look over the small crowd. ‘But if there is a Josh here –’ his eyes turned onto the man standing behind Becky ‘– then you can tell him that if he touches my girl’s ass again, he will have me to deal with.’

  Josh’s head sank into his shoulders with embarrassment as all eyes turned to him.

  ‘Franco, can you tell us where you and Miss Williams have been?’

  ‘Certainly. I have been to Sedgewick’s fish-and-chip restaurant on Half Moon Hill. The best eating place in town.’

  ‘Franco, would you care to enlighten your fans . . .?’

  ‘Franco, how did you meet . . .?’

  Questions were being fired at them from all sides but as Franco pulled Cariad squarely in front of him, everything outside of their little circle faded into insignificant nothing.

  ‘Cariad Williams, I have had one of the best afternoons of my life. Next time I come here – and I will – I want to swim in that blue lake in Winterworld with you. Then we’ll dry off and go to our special place.’

  ‘Franco, where’s the special place?’ Another question from a different reporter, but the couple didn’t hear him.

  ‘Sounds brilliant.’ Cariad felt herself blushing as Franco was staring at her as intently as he stared at all his drop-dead-gorgeous leading women in films, just before he snogged their faces off.

  Then Cariad felt Franco Mezzaluna’s lips fall onto hers. It wasn’t a snog, it was something light and beautiful and infinitely more tender than a screen kiss. It tasted of affection and mischief with a lingering hint of Sedgewick’s curry sauce.

  ‘I’ll be in touch, my beautiful pen-friend,’ he said. As his hands slid from her, their private bubble popped and Cariad was suddenly aware of cameras clicking and flashing, questions were coming from everywhere, Becky was screaming at Josh, Effin was blasting his horn and shouting at Franco to hurry up and get in the bloody van. Seconds later, Cariad’s uncle and his famous passenger had screeched off in the direction of Winterworld, leaving her to give the waiting reporters a courteous, if brief, interview, to satisfy their newspaper editors. Then Cariad Williams walked into the house, though she felt as if she had floated in, feet inches above the ground.

  That night Cariad lay in bed, her head full of plans and her heart full of sighs and smiles. Becky and Lacey had been creeping around her for the last couple of hours and it was more sickly than them being bitchy. She would start looking around for another place to live the next day – anywhere would do until she could live in an apartment above her dance school. She had no doubt in her mind that Franco wouldn’t let her down, but even if he did, she would make her dream come true somehow, even if it might take her slightly longer than if she had a multi-millionaire angel funding her project. She’d aim for that big moon, rather than the little one, just as her da had always told her to. He wouldn’t have let her down with duff advice.

  As she lay in bed, her curtains didn’t quite meet and light was peeping in. She nudged the material back to see that the moon was a bright-white perfect half-round – a mezzaluna.

  It was a very good sign.

  Epilogue

  For someone as shy and reserved as Cariad, the next couple of days were certainly an experience as the newspapers were full of her photograph and some highly exaggerated editorial. One of the tabloids had offered her a substantial amount of money to spill the beans on her relationship with Franco, but she politely declined, which made them even more desperate to find out. The Daily Trumpet had reported that the mystery woman Chariot Walliams was a distant relative of David Walliams.

  The Sunday Mirror did a lovely, non-intrusive article on her day out with a Hollywood film star, which paid enough for her to move into a small but pretty rented flat in Little Kipping. She declined the offer from Becky and Lacey to keep in touch with them.

  Cariad was now on the publicity radar, and though interest in her died down after a month or so, it revved right up again the next year when the Williams-Mezzaluna School of Dance opened its newly renovated doors. It proved to be incredibly good for business.

  True to his word, Franco threw himself into the project with gusto. And yes, he did reveal to his adoring fans that he’d had problems all of his life with literacy, but what had helped was finding something of interest that made him want to learn to enjoy reading; which in his case was his lovely pen-friend’s letters.

  Sedgewick’s fish-and-chip restaurant, endorsed by Franco Mezzaluna, became such a hot spot that Duncan Grinter had to concede defeat and sold up his rival restaurant darn t’road.

  As for Jacques and Eve and the remaining half-year of pregnancy . . . well, that’s another story!

  ‘Don’t you dare look down at a little moon in a puddle, when you can look up and see it big in the sky.’

  Evan Williams – Cariad’s da.

  Acknowledgements

  A special thank-you to Mr Owen Williams, who, as always, is such fun to work with and who brings Effin to life with his wonderful, irreverent, fabulous Welsh.

  And thank you, dear readers, for buying this and helping Claire. x

  If you enjoyed this short story, read on for an exclusive excerpt of Milly’s new novel, Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage.

  New beginnings, old secrets, and a place to call home . . .

  Viv arrives at Wildflower Cottage, a tumbledown animal sanctuary, for the summer. Her job is to help with the admin, but the truth is she is here for something much closer to her heart . . .

  Geraldine runs the Wildflower Cottage sanctuary. She escaped from her past to find happiness here, but now her place of refuge is about to come under threat. Can she keep her history at bay and her future safe?

  Back home, Viv’s mother Stel thinks she might have found a man who will treat her right for once. Ian is kind, considerate and clearly head over heels for her. That’s what she has wanted all along, isn’t it . . .?

  Escape to Wildflower Cottage this summer for love, laughter and friendship . . .

  Chapter 1

  A person could have been forgiven for thinking that by driving to the hamlet of Ironmist, they were crossing the boundaries of time as well as county divisions. Viv Blackbird half expected to see King Arthur and the knights of his Round Table in her rear-view mirror when she had passed the grey stone castle on the crest of the hill. The castle was the seat of the Leighton family, she knew. They owned most of the land around here and had done since before the Big Bang. The area from the hilltop down to the hamlet below had once been called High-on-the-Mist, though the name had long since been contracted to Ironmist, or so the internet told her. Viv was headed for the bottom of the dell where the Wildflower Cottage Sanctuary for Animals was situated. As the road turned sharply away from the castle and began to dip, she could see how the old name had suited it perfectly. A low mist had settled in the bowl of the valley. It was as if the ground were made of smoke. It looked both beautiful and weird; but then weird was good sometimes.

  A black horse was trotting along the road. Its rider was a woman who was wearing her long hair loose and it was as black as the horse’s mane. Viv dabbed her foot on the brake, even though she was hardly speeding anyway, and swung out to the other side of the road. The woman didn’t even acknowledge the consideration. In fact, if anything, she gave Viv a look that said what is your car doing on the road? Viv hoped she wasn’t representative of the welcome she was going to receive. She’d never lived in a place as small as this but knew they had the reputation of being cliquish. She also hoped there weren’t any horses in the sanctuary. She didn’t like the un
predictable massive things and couldn’t understand how anyone would want to climb up onto their backs and give them free licence to throw you off and then trample all over you.

  Viv turned down what she presumed was the main street through Ironmist, passing a pretty row of cottages, a barber on one side of the road, a pub on the other called The Lady of the Lake. A woman was washing her front step with a bucket of water and a scrubbing brush. An A frame stood outside the Ironmist Stores and Post Office holding a handwritten sign which read: MR WAYNE HAS HAD HIS OP AND HE’S FINE. Viv smiled. That notice gave her better hope that she was about to join a friendly community.

  Jesus. She slammed on her brakes as a dog wandered into the road. A huge beast of a thing. It was larger than the dog that had played the title role in the TV adaptation of The Hound of the Baskervilles. A tall, squarely-built young man approached the car, holding up his hands apologetically. Viv lowered her window as he indicated that he wanted to speak to her.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘My fault. I let go of his lead. Are you all right? You’re shaking like a jelly.’

  Viv looked at her hands clamped onto the steering wheel and noticed that her little finger was vibrating.

  ‘I’m okay, thank you,’ she replied, though she didn’t entirely feel it. Thank goodness she hadn’t been going any faster.

  The man stroked the big dog’s head. ‘He’s called Pilot,’ he said. ‘He’s twelve. I love Pilot.’

  The man’s size had deceived Viv. Up close, she could see he must only have been about eighteen or nineteen and mentally, he seemed to be much younger.

  ‘Well, you make sure you hold on to his lead properly next time,’ Viv said softly.

  ‘I will,’ he replied. ‘Where are you going, lady?’

  ‘To Wildflower Cottage, the animal sanctuary,’ replied Viv. ‘Am I heading in the right direction?’

  The young man brightened. ‘Oh yes. That’s where Pilot lives. Don’t tell them, will you? They won’t let me walk him again.’

  ‘I promise I won’t.’

  ‘You need to turn right just after the cafe. It’s on the corner. It’s called the Corner Caff.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘My name’s Armstrong. If they ask, will you tell them that I’m doing a good job? I’m going to take Pilot for a biscuit at the bakery up the road. They make biscuits with liver in them especially for dogs. Pilot loves those.’

  ‘I will,’ smiled Viv.

  ‘See you. Come on, Pilot.’ And with that, Armstrong tugged on the lead and he and the giant shaggy dog began to lumber up the hill.

  Viv set off slowly in case anything else should run into her path. She didn’t want to start off her new job in an animal sanctuary by killing something. The cafe on the corner was painted bright yellow and hard to miss. She swung a right there and was faced with a stunning view of the bottom of the valley. In the centre of it sat a long cottage couched in a bed of fairy-tale swirls of low mist and to its left was a tall tower with a crenellated top. Viv’s jaw tightened with nervousness as the car ate the distance towards it.

  She parked as directed by a crooked wooden sign saying ‘Visitors’, at the side of a battered black pick-up truck. As she got out of the car, she noticed sprinkles of flowers in the mist, their violet-blue heads dotted everywhere she looked. The second thing she noticed was the biggest cat she had ever seen in her life walking towards her, muscles rippling under his velvet black fur. She’d thought her family cat Basil was huge but this guy was like a panther. The cat rose onto his back legs in order to brush his face against her thigh. As Viv’s hand came out to stroke his head, a voice shrieked from the cottage doorway.

  ‘For goodness sake don’t touch him. He’ll savage you.’

  A tall, slim woman had appeared there. She was wearing a long flowery hippy dress and had a mad frizz of brown hair. ‘He’s called Beelzebub for a reason. Bub for short.’ She walked towards Viv with her hand extended in greeting. ‘Viv, I presume,’ she said. ‘I’m Geraldine Hartley. We spoke on the phone.’

  Viv had rung the sanctuary as soon as she spotted the advertisement in the Pennine Times and after a surprisingly brief conversation, Geraldine had offered her the job right there and then, subject to a personal reference and an assurance that Viv had no criminal history or accusation of animal cruelty. The wage was basic, cash in hand, although meals were included as was a small grace and favour house. Her friend Hugo, who now had a scientific research job down south in London had supplied a glowing appraisal of her abilities and character. She’d taken the risk of giving a false address in Sheffield and so far there had been no comeback. It wasn’t the most professional organisation she’d come across.

  Viv shook her hand. Geraldine had a very strong grip. She also had the most beautiful perfume. Viv instinctively breathed it up into her nose and her brain began to dissect the scent: rose – definitely. Violet – probably. Orris . . . maybe. It was floral, but with a hint of something else that she couldn’t quite pin down. Complex, but there wasn’t a scent yet that she couldn’t separate into its basic elements, given time. Her olfactory senses judged it to be delightful and something that her mother would love.

  ‘Welcome to Wildflower Cottage.’ Geraldine brought her back into the here and now by lifting her arms and spreading her hands out towards the sky as if she were an evangelist about to address her congregation.

  ‘It’s so pretty here,’ replied Viv, opening up her boot and taking out her luggage. ‘The mist is very unusual.’

  ‘We get a lot of it,’ said Geraldine, lifting up one of Viv’s suitcases. ‘Come on in. I expect you’re dying for a cup of tea. Or are you a coffee girl?’

  ‘A tea would be lovely, please,’ replied Viv. She didn’t say that she was already full of tea having stopped off at a service station halfway through the journey and had two pots of the stuff whilst soul-searching at the table. What are you doing? her brain threw at her. Have you really thought this through? She had texted her mum and told her that she was stuck in traffic, because she knew she would be worrying why she hadn’t been in contact to say she had arrived. She didn’t ring because she thought that hearing her mother’s voice might have had her abandoning her plans and running back home.

  Viv followed Geraldine into a spacious, rustic kitchen-lounge with a heavy beamed ceiling, thick stone walls and a Yorkshire range fireplace. There was a massive furry dog bed at one side of a bright red Aga and a cushioned cat bed between a long oxblood Chesterfield sofa and an old-fashioned Welsh dresser. A bird with round angry eyes was hopping about on the stripped pine table in the centre of the room. Suddenly it took flight and swooped towards Viv, who ducked and screamed.

  ‘Viv, meet Piccolo,’ said Geraldine. ‘He gets excited, bless him. We’ve had him from an egg which his sneaky mum hid from us. There’s nothing wrong with him but he’s imprinted on us. He thinks he’s a cat with wings.’ She called him and Piccolo flew towards her, landing on her hair. ‘It doesn’t hurt me,’ she said, seeing Viv’s look of horror. ‘Unless I move too fast and he feels the need to grip on.’

  She crossed to the Aga and put a large kettle of water on it to boil, still wearing her living breathing owl hat. ‘You’ll find that this is not your typical animal sanctuary.’

  Bub swaggered in and over to Viv, butting her leg with his large head and making friendly chirrupy noises. She bent down to stroke him, remembering just in time to pull her hand back as his paw came out to strike her, claws extended.

  ‘Told you,’ laughed Geraldine. ‘He’s a duplicitous bugger, that one.’

  ‘I met one of your helpers up the road,’ said Viv, attempting to be friendly. ‘Armstrong, I think he said he was called.’

  ‘Armstrong Baslow, yes. Did he have a rather large dog with him? Please say yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve let him take Pilot out. The old lad needed a walk and with being by myself at the moment, I haven’t had time.�
��

  ‘Pilot – that’s Mr Rochester’s dog in Jane Eyre, isn’t it?’

  ‘It most certainly is. You can blame me for that. But as a rule of thumb, if the name is ridiculous, it’ll be something Armstrong has thought of. When Pilot first came to us, I thought he looked exactly as I’d imagined the Pilot in the book to be. Poor soul had been wandering around the moors for God knows how long. Someone had obviously dumped him. But he took to the name straightaway, bless him.’

  She laughed and Viv warmed to the sound. Geraldine must be a nice person to have such a lovely, tinkly laugh, she decided.

  ‘As for Armstrong’s name, in case you’re wondering, his father was a space enthusiast,’ Geraldine continued. ‘He died last year and they sent his ashes up to heaven in a firework, can you believe?’

  Viv was hypnotised by the owl’s antics. He was on the edge of the table now and seemed to be reprimanding the cat with angry flaps of his wings and squawks. Then he jumped down onto the floor beside him.

  ‘Oh my God . . .’ Viv shooed at the predatory Bub by her feet. She was sure she was about to witness the last few seconds of the bird’s life.

  Geraldine laughed as she watched Viv in full panic mode whilst Bub flashed her the sort of look he reserved for viewing things he’d done in his litter tray.

  ‘Piccolo is safer than the rest of us with Bub. They have what Heath always calls “an affinity”.’

  ‘Heath?’

  ‘Heath Merlo, the boss,’ explained Geraldine. ‘I thought it was serendipitous that his name means “blackbird” in Italian. It was like a sign that you were the one we should take on. Mind you, we were hardly overrun with applicants.’

  It was the first time Viv had heard mention of ‘Heath’. She’d presumed that Geraldine was the one in charge.

  ‘Heath is away with Wonk at the moment.’ Geraldine went into further explanations. ‘Wonk is our three-legged donkey. She’s having a new prosthetic limb fitted because she’s outgrown the other one.’