‘And she opens a book nicely,’ Grandpa Joe added.
‘She sniffs them too,’ Sam said.
‘I thought she might. So, she’s pretty damned perfect, then, I’d say.’
‘We don’t know her,’ Sam said.
‘That can be remedied.’
Sam got up from the sofa and took their mugs into the kitchen. ‘I’m not going to get involved with anyone again, okay?’ he called through. ‘I’m done with all that.’
‘You can’t say that,’ Grandpa Joe said.
‘Why not?’ Sam asked.
‘Because you’re not dead yet.’
Sam didn’t reply, but he couldn’t help acknowledging the fact that, since he’d broken up with Emma, a little bit of him had died inside.
Callie still hadn’t fully recovered from the whole rabbit on the doorstep incident. The poor little helpless thing, she thought, as she took it round to her back garden and placed it on an old wooden bench. She didn’t have the heart to put it in the bin. That just wouldn’t be right. She’d have to give it a proper burial. But how had it got there in the first place? Had it been left by a neighbourhood cat? Or maybe it was something more sinister. Perhaps it was the locals’ way of telling her that Londoners weren’t welcome in the village. She’d heard about such things before – how some communities only welcomed you if you were fifth generation. Had she made an awful mistake in moving to the countryside?
‘I’ll stick it out,’ she told herself, imagining putting up a pair of net curtains in the downstairs rooms so she could keep an eye on the outside world without being seen herself, and having the local police station on speed dial if there were any more unwanted gifts left on her doorstep.
There was an old shed in the little cottage garden and Callie opened it, finding a few basic tools that had seen better days. Choosing a spot under an ancient apple tree, she dug a little grave for the rabbit.
‘Dear little thing,’ she said after a few minutes’ digging through the tough clay soil. ‘Rest in peace.’
Returning inside, she realised that she was shaking. Oh, dear, she thought. She was much too sentimental for life in the country.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she told herself. ‘You just have to grow a backbone. A real strong country girl backbone.’
It was then that the tiniest glimmer of inspiration hit her, lighting up her eyes and sending her scurrying to her study to grab a notebook and pen. Sitting down at the old pine table, she began to write, her pen flying over the page. She wasn’t sure how long she sat there for, but when she’d finished she had five pages of notes and two pages of what she felt was going to be a pretty exciting Chapter One.
The next couple of days continued in very much the same vein with Callie furiously scribbling and typing at her desk, briefly stopping for cups of tea and a bite to eat and then continuing with her story. How wonderful it felt to actually be writing again, she thought, to be putting the words down one at a time, creating sentences, paragraphs, chapters – a story. Writing was her drug and, when she wasn’t able to write, the withdrawal symptoms were horrendous but, when she was flying high as she was right now, there was no better feeling in the world.
It was in the middle of one afternoon when Callie was gazing out of the window, daydreaming about a scene, her eyes only half-seeing the village green on the other side of the road. She was aware of a tall man with long brown hair walking across the green. Her eyes focused properly and she watched his easy strides as he crossed the lane. It looked as if he was heading straight towards Owl Cottage, but that couldn’t be right, could it? What business would he have with her, she wondered? It was then that she saw he was carrying a strange package out of which a long feather was poking.
She watched, her heart racing as he opened her garden gate. He was going to leave a dead animal on her doorstep, wasn’t he? She ran down the stairs, listening to the heavy footsteps walking up the path to the front door before moving into the living room and peering out of the window. The man was wearing a rather tatty wax jacket and a pair of green wellies. Callie watched him and, as he walked back down her path empty-handed, she opened her front door. Sure enough, there on the doorstep was a dead pheasant. She gasped.
‘Excuse me!’ she called after the departing man who was now on the other side of the road. ‘Hey!’ Her cry was loud and sounded a lot more confident than she felt.
He turned and Callie found herself staring at a rather handsome face. ‘You after me?’ he asked.
‘Yes!’ Callie said. ‘I mean, I think so. Did you leave this dead bird?’
She watched as he crossed the road towards her, his stride long and slow. A country stride, Callie decided, where nothing was rushed.
‘Hello,’ he said once he’d reached the gate. ‘How can I help?’
‘Is this yours?’ Callie asked, nudging the dead bird with the toe of her boot.
‘Not anymore,’ he said. ‘It’s for Mrs Morrison,’ he said.
‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘Was that dead rabbit for Mrs Morrison too?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She likes a bit of rabbit. Makes a wonderful pie.’
Callie breathed a sigh of relief at the realisation that she hadn’t been the victim of some townie ousting campaign.
‘I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,’ she told him.
‘Misunderstanding?’
‘Mrs Morrison – she’s no longer here,’ Callie said.
‘Oh, my God!’ the man said, his handsome face creasing in anxiety. ‘She’s dead?’
‘Oh, no!’ Callie said, shaking her head. ‘She’s moved in with her daughter.’
‘For good?’
‘Yes,’ Callie said.
‘And you live here now?’
Callie nodded.
‘What a shame,’ he said, causing Callie to frown. ‘I mean – not that you’re here. That’s not a shame at all.’ He grinned and she couldn’t help acknowledging how attractive his smile was. ‘I mean it’s a shame that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.’ He stroked his chin and Callie noticed how dark his skin was as if he’d spent the whole summer out of doors.
‘I’ve been away, you see – travelling,’ he continued and Callie saw that he had that traveller’s look about him; that sort of worldly-wise confidence that comes from hiking through mountains, eating street food and hitching rides on anything that moved. ‘Where’s she now?’ he asked.
‘Hampshire,’ Callie said.
‘Oh,’ he said and then he raked a hand through his dark, wild-looking hair.
‘I have her address if you’d like to write,’ Callie said.
He shook his head. ‘I’m not much of a one for letters,’ he said and he sighed. ‘I’m going to miss her.’
Callie wasn’t sure what to say so said nothing.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I’m taking up your time. Sorry.’ He turned to leave. ‘You can keep the pheasant.’
‘Oh, no,’ Callie said quickly. ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with it.’
He turned back to face her. ‘You’re not from round here, are you?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Is it obvious?’
‘Pretty much,’ he said, but he was smiling and so she didn’t take it as a reprimand.
She suddenly became aware that she was wearing her ‘writing look’ as she termed it and that meant that her long hair had been haphazardly tied up and she was wearing jogging bottoms with a hole in the left knee and a baggy cardigan in a rather astonishing shade of lime. She cleared her throat, feeling awkward and self-conscious.
‘So, where are you from? London?’
She didn’t like the way he said that with such assumption, but he was still smiling at her and a strange assortment of emotions whirled through her as he stared at her so intently. She didn’t feel comfortable with those inquisitive eyes of his upon her and yet there was something innately attractive about him that made her realise that she didn’t want him to leave just yet.
‘Yes,’ she said
at last. ‘I’m from London.’
He nodded. ‘Can’t stand the place myself. I went there once.’
‘Just the once?’ she said, a teasing tone to her voice.
‘Once was enough,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t breathe there. Couldn’t walk properly.’
‘You like to stride,’ she said and then bit her tongue.
‘What?’ he said, sounding surprised.
‘I – erm – I’m guessing – with the wellies and everything.’
‘Oh, I see,’ he said and his eyes twinkled merrily. ‘Well, I guess I do like to stride. That’s very observant of you.’
Callie gave a little smile. It was the first she’d offered him, but she had the feeling that it wouldn’t be the last. ‘I’m a writer,’ she volunteered. ‘It’s my job to be observant.’
‘I’ve never met a writer,’ he said. ‘What kind of things do you write?’
‘Children’s stories,’ she said.
‘Oh, you have kids?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘You write for other people’s kids?’
‘I guess,’ she said. ‘I’ve never really thought about it like that.’
‘Or perhaps you write for the kid inside you,’ he said.
She blinked. ‘Well, I’m not sure about that.’ She could feel her face was heating up with the directness of his gaze and the pertness of his comments.
‘Right,’ he said, suddenly looking ill at ease standing in the middle of her path. ‘I guess I’d better be going.’
Callie nodded, not knowing what else to do. ‘I’m sorry you missed saying goodbye to Mrs Morrison,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ he said, turning to leave and then he stopped. ‘What did you do with it, by the way?’
‘With what?’
‘The rabbit?’
Callie bit her lip. ‘I buried it.’
The man laughed. ‘You didn’t!’
‘I most certainly did,’ she said.
He shook his head. ‘Well, I’ll come back and cook you one sometime. I’m a pretty good cook,’ he said.
She watched as he took the pheasant and opened the little gate, closing it behind him and striding across the road and the village green before disappearing into the trees beyond.
‘Extraordinary man,’ she said as she closed her front door, but what was even more extraordinary was the fact that he’d invited himself back and that she hadn’t objected even though she didn’t even know his name.
Chapter 4
Sam Nightingale crossed the road from his bookshop in Castle Clare and opened the bright yellow door into his sister’s shop.
‘Bryony?’ he called as he entered, her shop bell tinkling very much like his own did. Grandma Nell had bought each shop a bell, insisting that a shop wasn’t a proper shop without one and nobody had dared to argue with her.
‘I’m in the back!’ Bryony called through. ‘Come and see these new books!’
He recognised the excitement in her voice; it was always the same when a new delivery arrived. That experience never got old and it was one that Sam sometimes envied his sister but, then again, he couldn’t imagine he’d be quite as comfortable selling new books. His home was with the secondhand, the pre-loved, the old.
‘Just look at these!’ Bryony said, not bothering to turn around as he entered the stock room. He wasn’t offended; he knew he couldn’t hope to compete with a box of new books.
He knelt down on the floor beside her as she handed him a glossy paperback. ‘It’s a new children’s series by that imprint I was telling you about.’ Her glossy dark hair swung over her shoulder, obscuring her face, but he didn’t need to see it to know that she was smiling.
He looked at the book she had handed him.
‘Smell that!’ she said, looking at him with the same brown eyes which he’d inherited from their parents. ‘New paper and ink!’
Sam grinned, thinking once more of Callie Logan – his new book-sniffing customer.
‘And feel the embossed title,’ she said, laughing as she ran her fingers along it. ‘These are going straight in the window,’ she said, her cheeks pink with excitement as she got up from the floor and dusted down her skirt which was one of the patchwork creations that she made herself and which had defined her for years. She was also wearing a long multi-coloured chiffon scarf which floated around her as she moved and a pair of biker boots with enormous zips and buckles. It was a very Bryony sort of look which Sam often thought was part child, part bohemian.
Sam followed her through to the shop. It was just a one-room shop but it was divided into several areas which included a small space enclosed by bookcases. In the middle of this was a handsome striped rug on which sat a collection of brightly coloured cushions and baby beanbags. This was the ‘Reading Room’ where Bryony held twice-weekly story-telling sessions which were very popular with the neighbourhood children and even more popular with their parents who would drop them off and then go for coffee and cake in Castle Clare’s cafe, The Golden Biscuit.
‘I actually wanted to talk to you about a children’s series,’ he said, watching as his sister carefully placed three of the shiny new paperbacks in the window, taking out a rather tired copy of Harry Potter whose cover was starting to warp.
‘Oh, yes?’
‘The Perdita series,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of it?’
‘Heard of it?’ Bryony said, flinging her dark hair over her shoulders as she stood up straight again. ‘Of course I’ve heard of it! It’s been all over the place. Made into a TV series too and all the usual plastic merchandise that comes with those sorts of things which parents expect me to stock.’ She rolled her eyes. Plastic toys did not have a place in Bryony’s beloved shop. ‘What about it? You after a set or something?’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Just the first one.’
‘Perdita’s Key?’
‘That’s the one,’ he said, impressed by her encyclopaedic knowledge when it came to children’s literature. ‘A first edition.’
She sucked her teeth. ‘You won’t find one of those in a hurry,’ she said. ‘Small print run if I remember rightly.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘It was just on the off-chance of you having one kicking around.’
She shook her head. ‘It might be worth quite a bit of money now if I did.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Bryony said as she walked into the Reading Room and plumped up the cushions. ‘It’s quite a collector’s item now. Worth far more than the recommended retail price. Why do you want it? You got a collector for it?’
‘You could say that,’ Sam said.
‘Who is it?’
‘A new customer.’
Bryony stopped plumping cushions and looked at her brother and smiled. ‘Who?’
He grinned back at her. ‘Somebody called Callie Logan.’
Bryony’s eyes doubled in size. ‘Callie Logan? The author? The actual author?’
Sam nodded at her.
‘What was she doing in your bookshop?’
‘She lives here now.’
‘Callie Logan lives in Castle Clare?’
‘A little village just outside,’ Sam said.
‘Oh, my God! You have got to get her to come in here! I’ll order some of her books. No! I’ll order all of her books! We can set up a signing. No – wait! An event! A real author event with queues of people going down the street!’
‘Bry!’ Sam cried. ‘I don’t think she’s into all that.’
‘How do you know?’ she asked, her hands on her hips as she squared up to him in defiance.
‘It’s just an impression I get,’ he said. ‘She’s left London for Suffolk and I think she just wants a quiet life now.’
‘Is she running away from something?’
‘I don’t know for sure,’ he said, ‘but I think she probably is.’
Bryony examined her brother. ‘You like her, don’t you?’
‘Don’t you start as well,’ he said, suddenly pulli
ng out a new edition of Black Beauty and finding it intensely interesting.
‘Who else has started then?’
‘Grandpa,’ Sam said.
‘The astute Grandpa Joe,’ Bryony said nodding. ‘Well, he should know.’
‘Know what?’
‘What’s going on in that head of yours,’ she said. ‘He usually does. If you’re ever trying to hide a secret, everybody knows to go to Grandpa and ask him what’s going on.’
‘Good grief!’ Sam said. ‘Is there no privacy in this family?’
‘None whatsoever,’ Bryony said. ‘You should know that by now.’
He replaced the copy of Black Beauty.
‘Aren’t you going to buy that?’ Bryony teased.
‘Ha ha,’ he said, turning to go.
‘Sam?’ she said as he reached the door.
‘What?’
‘Do you really like her?’
‘I don’t even know her,’ he said. ‘I wish everybody would stop making such a big fuss about her.’
Bryony frowned. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that we’re all so desperate to see you happy. You know, after Emma.’
He sighed. ‘And I wish everybody would stop going on about her too,’ he said, the bell jingling above his head as he marched out of the shop.
Sunday lunch at the Nightingales’ was always something a bit special. The large dining room table at Campion House, which comfortably seated all ten members of the family as well as various guests, was set with a fine white linen tablecloth which had belonged to Grandma Nell’s mother, the very best crockery, silver cutlery and beautiful crystal glasses.
The room itself was a splendid typical Georgian one with a high ceiling and enormous sash windows that let in plenty of Suffolk light, and boasted the added bonus of French windows which led out into the garden. In the summer months, the doors would be flung open so that the scent of flowers and cut grass would mingle with the food.
A huge walnut sideboard also graced the room and it was on this as well as on the table itself that Frank Nightingale would display flowers cut from his well-tended garden. He still hadn’t decided if books or gardening was his paramount passion these days, but his wife Eleanor knew that he was at his happiest when in the midst of some huge herbaceous border, tackling an overgrown honeysuckle or staking delphiniums.
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