‘I’m a history teacher. Well, I was. I’m having a break from teaching.’
‘Not surprised,’ snorted Bunty. ‘Bloody hard work, especially these days. I was friends with a teacher for years. It was tough then, but for different reasons. Nowadays it seems to be all SAT exams and worrying about school assessments, if the papers are anything to go by.’
Lucy nodded. ‘And not much time to teach. That’s the hard bit. We spend more time worrying about paperwork than we do with the children, or that’s what it feels like. Anyway, I’m having a sabbatical – I was a bit unwell.’
‘You’re all right now?’
‘Yes. Just have to take things a bit easy for a while. So when I saw Margaret’s advert come up . . .’ She paused, realizing she was treading on dodgy ground, given Bunty’s antipathy to the whole idea, but Bunty didn’t react. ‘It seemed like serendipity.’
‘Did it indeed?’ said Bunty. ‘Well, that all sounds very good. Now –’ she stood up, and Lucy took the cue and followed suit – ‘I think perhaps I’d better get on. I’m sure you’ve got lots to do, too.’
‘I’ll take these and post them just now.’
‘Thank you.’ Bunty picked up the cups and took them towards the sink and Lucy, skirting past a snoozing Stanley, headed out to the hall.
‘Oh – Lucy,’ Bunty called.
She paused, noticing that on the wall there hung a small, framed black-and-white photograph of a young, beautiful woman standing by the gates of Buckingham Palace. Again it was the glamorous, much younger Bunty – this time in a neat dark suit and a pillbox hat, standing beside a tall, handsome man in a uniform. That must be Len, her husband.
‘The recycling, please. And watch out for the village shop. No doubt Beth will try and give you the third degree.’ Bunty handed over the sheaf of brochures.
‘Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow morning?’
‘Definitely.’
That felt like a win, Lucy decided. Bunty wasn’t going to be easy to get to know, but at least she hadn’t had the door closed in her face. That had to be something.
She dumped the papers in the recycling box, and headed back home to collect Hamish.
‘You wait there,’ she said, looping Hamish’s lead through the ring outside the shop door. He sniffed at the bowl of water that had been left for canine visitors, then sat down with his ears pricked, tongue out and eyes bright.
It hadn’t really crossed Lucy’s mind that the village shop here in the rolling green countryside on the edge of the Cotswolds would be any different from the corner shop at the end of her Brighton street. She’d expected to open the door to a rack of newspapers and bright magazines, a couple of shelves of the usual emergency tinned food and last-minute groceries, and perhaps a fridge or two with some sad-looking fruit and vegetables.
This was like a high-end deli. The bell on the door alerted everybody in the entire building to her presence, and a couple of customers looked up from their shopping. Realizing they didn’t know who she was, they turned away again. But a woman with red hair turned and looked across at her from behind the counter. She was wearing a black apron with ‘The Village Shop’ embroidered across the front, and her hair was tied back in a low ponytail. She looked perfectly friendly, and waved a cheery hello. Lucy smiled back, politely.
She picked up a wicker basket – no bog-standard wire ones here – and paused, taking it all in. Just beside the door there was a wooden shelf lined with artisan breads. She picked up a delicious-looking loaf studded with black olives, and then peered through the window to double check that Hamish was still happily tied outside – he was cleaning his toes, and looked quite content. The shelves were definitely not the average corner-shop fare. In the freezer there were locally made ready meals that sounded absolutely amazing – they’d have to be, at that price. And there weren’t just normal eggs – there were beautiful pale blue and dusty olive-green ones, packaged in a brown cardboard box, hand-stamped. They were double the price of the normal free-range ones she usually bought, but she couldn’t resist them. Then she threw in some chocolate for good measure – the ordinary kind, not the £4-a-bar handmade stuff that was wrapped in waxed paper. They even had organic, freshly made dog food in its own special freezer. Little Maudley was clearly doing all right for itself.
An archway led through to a busy little cafe, which she’d have to explore later when she didn’t have Hamish tied outside. The blackboard announced that local strawberries and cream were back on the menu, and her stomach growled at the thought. She shoved in a few other essentials and headed for the checkout, which doubled as the post office counter.
‘Can I post these here?’
‘Letterbox is just outside. I’ll take them, if you like – John’s just arriving to pick them up, look.’ The woman pointed out to the road where a shiny red post office van had just pulled up. Hamish, predictably, was barking furiously.
‘Oh God, my dog. Can I just leave this here and make sure he’s okay?’
‘Course. I’ll ring this stuff through for you. Have you brought a bag?’
Lucy shook her head.
‘I’ll give you one of ours.’
‘Hamish!’
Outside, bouncing on the end of his leash, his little legs stiff and his hackles rising, Hamish was defending the honour of the village shop with all his might.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Lucy said, as the postman paused to look at the Westie with amusement. ‘He thinks he’s a German Shepherd.’
‘Small dog syndrome. Hello, mate,’ said the postie, squatting down to Hamish’s level. He extended a hand, gently. Hamish melted instantly, rolling over onto his back and waving one paw in the air.
‘I thought he’d got over his barking-at-strangers stage. Maybe it starts again when we come somewhere new.’
She gave him a quick scratch behind the ears and left him there, following the postman into the shop.
‘All right, John, I see you’ve met my new guard dog.’
‘He’s not much use, is he, Beth? Rolled over the second I got within three feet of him.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Lucy said again, rummaging in her bag for her purse. ‘How much do I owe you?’
As she paid with her debit card, John the postman gathered the sacks of parcels from behind the counter and made to head off back to the car.
‘Hang on, don’t forget these after all that.’ Beth reached across and handed over Bunty’s letters. John stuffed them into one of the postbags.
‘So you’ve moved into the cottage next to Bunty, then?’
The bell jingled again as John headed back out, with a smile and a wave.
‘Only for a little while,’ Lucy said, not wanting to give too much away.
‘Only I saw the return address on the back of the letters and put two and two together. Otherwise I’d have thought you were a tourist.’
‘No, but I will be doing a bit of exploring while I’m here,’ Lucy found herself saying.
‘Well, if you want any inside info on where to go or what to do, you know where to come. I’m pretty good on all that stuff. Comes with the job, y’see.’ Beth gave a queenly wave of her arm.
‘Thanks.’ Lucy picked up the bag. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
As she left, one of the other customers who’d been pottering about headed for the till, and she could hear Beth talking to her in a low voice. Lucy was sure they were talking about her. It was a little bit like finding yourself in an episode of The Archers.
She headed home, dropped off the shopping and took Hamish for a run on the footpath that led up between two fields behind the cottages. The sky was threatening rain, deep purple clouds gathering above the treeline. They made it home just as the first drops splashed down on Lucy’s face, and she heard what could have been a distant rumble of thunder. She closed the door and sat down on the sofa.
It was four o’clock. Hamish had been walked, Bunty had been helped, and there was nothing left to do. She unpacked everything, and –
dodging the rain – put her suitcase in the little shed in the back garden, then sat down heavily. She hadn’t realized how much of her life – well, all of it, if she was honest – had been taken up by work. After she’d been rushed into hospital and then signed off sick, her mum had returned home briefly for a fortnight from Australia, so she hadn’t really had time on her own until now. This was exactly what the doctor had ordered – rest, peace and quiet, no stress – but until now she hadn’t had a chance to realize just how long every day was with no work in it. She turned on the radio for company.
This is Radio 4. Recent studies have shown that loneliness has reached new levels in rural areas. This programme will examine the causes of this . . .
Bloody hell. Making a face at herself in the mirror, Lucy switched it off and turned on the television instead.
Chapter Four
She woke up with Hamish wriggling about at the foot of the bed. Outside the sun was shining, and there was no sign of last night’s rain. She looked at her watch – it was only half eight. She’d slept so well that it felt like she’d been asleep for days. It must be the country air.
‘Come on, then,’ she said, climbing out of bed. Hamish followed her downstairs and into the garden – she opened the back door, pausing to put on the kettle, and watched as he pottered about, sniffing. There was a strange-looking little wooden house underneath a slightly scruffy honeysuckle which grew over the side of the garden hut where she’d left her suitcase last night. Hamish sniffed it and then dismissed it. She turned back, hearing the kettle come to the boil, and headed inside to make coffee.
It was too early to go and knock on Bunty’s door, and besides, she didn’t want to pester her or look too eager. Maybe she’d just take Hamish for a decent walk first. Then she could leave him snoozing on the sofa, check on Bunty, and head into Bletchingham to explore the town – and the museum. Their website had been a bit out of date but had left her feeling hopeful that the curator might know the best place to start investigating the history of the area. Actually – she pulled on her trainers and whistled Hamish to heel – maybe all this free time wouldn’t be that hard to fill, after all.
The village was beautiful. The golden stones of the houses and cottages glowed in the early morning sunlight, and the birds were singing in the trees, which were already laden with unripe fruit. It was everything a country village should be, Lucy thought. She strolled along the path at Hamish’s pace, allowing him to sniff every single gatepost and streetlamp, and peered discreetly in the windows of the houses as she passed. They were all so perfectly kept. It was such a contrast to the messy, multicultural jumble that was Brighton, which she loved. Back home, you never knew what you’d find when you crossed a road or walked around a corner. A demo, or an impromptu student street party, or someone doing street art. Pop-up shops and galleries, and always noise – this place was so quiet that even her footsteps seemed loud as she walked down the lane towards the footpath. It was as if there had been a memo passed round: this was the style of woven wicker heart decoration to hang in your window. Here is the range of subtle grey planters in which to grow your lavender and tasteful white pelargoniums. No vibrant, umbrella-striped petunias pouring out of hanging baskets here.
And then she turned up the lane, following the sign that indicated a footpath. On the right was a tall stone wall, with purple flowering clematis flowing over the top and feathery ox-eye daisies growing in a wild tangle. She headed up a track with an overgrown, buttercup-strewn grass channel in the middle. The wall gave way to a chain-link fence and some gardens that looked – well, normal. Normal by the standards of the places Lucy knew, anyway. Jumbles of battered old furniture, plastic toys, overgrown grass. Kids already playing on a trampoline, throwing a football back and forth and yelling. It was a bit of a relief, actually, to see that there was a side to Little Maudley that wasn’t quite as picture-perfect as the rest of it. The houses were white-painted and dilapidated, and there wasn’t a bit of tasteful green-painted woodwork in sight. A small child spotted Hamish and ran to the end of one of the gardens to shout hello to him. Hamish bounced in through the long grass, his tail wagging furiously, and licked the fingers that were poking through the fence.
‘Hello,’ said Lucy, as she passed.
‘I like your doggy,’ said the little girl. She ran away then, and Hamish shot off in hot pursuit of something that smelled delicious on the path ahead. Lucy followed him, taking it slowly and cautiously. The doctor had stressed that she should carry on as normal, but take things easy. It seemed a bit of a contradictory idea – but perhaps that was just because she’d been living life at 100mph for so long that she didn’t really know how to slow down.
The path wound its way up a slight hill and then opened out, displaying the countryside beautifully. To the left were neatly kept allotments dotted with pastel-painted sheds, some hung with brightly coloured bunting that flapped in the breeze. In front of her the path curled downhill and into a wood, which looked enticingly cool and interesting – Hamish thought so, anyway. Lucy gasped at the beauty that unfolded before her. It was just like a painting – exactly what people must mean when they talked about rolling countryside. The undulating fields were dotted with cows and horses behind wooden fences. Patches of woodland covered the distant, higher hills. A bird of prey circled overhead and hovered for a moment before diving down into the woodland ahead. It was perfect. Lucy felt her face spreading into a huge smile of relief and gratitude. It was so far removed from the pressured, stressful world of teaching, attainment targets and exam results she’d left behind that it was almost unbelievable.
She leaned down and unclipped Hamish’s lead. ‘Off you go, boy,’ she said, laughing as he bolted off immediately. ‘And don’t forget to come back,’ she called after him, a little too late. The wood was no doubt full of exciting smells and burrows to explore, and all she had for bribery was a handful of biscuits she’d grabbed with the poo bags on the way out the door. She’d have to trust in his essential good nature. The fact that he was a terrier on a mission was a minor detail.
Walking though the soft, green wood, Hamish darted back and forth in front of her – not coming back to heel, but staying close enough that she felt reasonably sure he’d be catchable if the need arose. She ran her hand along the soft, serrated edges of ferns that had uncurled and arched over the leaf-strewn ground, just revelling in the loveliness of it all. Closing her eyes, she took a breath of the earthy, cool air.
‘Is he okay with dogs?’
A voice broke through her thoughts, and she snapped her eyes open.
‘Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you. Just don’t want my two causing a ruckus if he’s not used to other dogs.’
A tall woman of about thirty-five, with dark hair tied back in a messy bun, approached her. She was wearing a pair of filthy jeans, wellington boots that had seen better days and a stained t-shirt. She had two spaniels walking by her side, not on the lead but just obediently waiting for her instruction. They looked at her with tongue-lolling, unabashed adoration.
‘Mine are perfectly friendly,’ she explained, ‘but you never know, particularly with terriers.’
Lucy bridled slightly. ‘No, he’s perfectly friendly too.’
‘Good.’ The woman gave a slight nod of her head. ‘Go and sniff.’
With that, the two spaniels crashed through the pretty clearing, decimating the beautiful display of ferns and heading into a thicket of brambles which looked virtually impenetrable.
‘Nutcases.’ She smiled, then, and looked far less fierce. ‘Gorgeous morning for it.’
‘Beautiful,’ agreed Lucy. She looked around for Hamish, aware that she was now obliged to demonstrate his slavish dedication to her and his unceasing obedience. There was no sign of him.
‘Hamish?’
It was a question, rather than an instruction. A scuffling of leaves and the sound of something moving through the undergrowth suggested that he was at least planning to answer it. Lucy gave the wom
an a polite sort of smile and headed up the path that forked to the left, hoping she would head off to the right. There was nothing worse than having to make polite dog-walking conversation when you’d gone out for a peaceful think. Hamish’s head popped through the ferns, his nose black with mud, his bright button eyes gleaming with excitement.
‘Come on, Hame, this way.’
Hamish gave a snort and shook his head, making mud fly everywhere. Then he hit reverse gear and disappeared. Lucy hoped he was going in the right direction, and decided to set off on the path that led round the outskirts of the wood in the hope he’d follow.
Five dog-free minutes later, the path turned back round to meet – oh God, the spaniel woman again. She was strolling along, not a care in the world. Lucy, meanwhile, was trying to work out where the elusive bloody Hamish had gone.
‘Looking for someone?’ the woman said, laughing. She pointed to the trees on her left where a brown-and-white rolling heap of dogs were barking happily and playing together. ‘I think he’s taken a shine to my two.’
‘Oh God,’ said Lucy, forgetting to act cool. ‘I thought he’d buggered off. He does it a lot. It’s not so much a problem in Brighton – well, it is, to be honest – but out here I’m terrified he’ll leg it and I’ll never see him again.’
‘How old is he?’ Dog people could almost always be relied on to be friendly, Lucy had discovered. There was a camaraderie between them – out in all weathers, covered in muddy paw prints – that she’d discovered since taking on responsibility for Hamish. He’d started out as her brother Tom’s puppy, bought as a last-ditch attempt to keep his relationship going – but just like sticking-plaster babies, he hadn’t worked. Tom’s girlfriend had moved out, and Lucy – who worked slightly less ridiculous hours than her brother – had ended up holding the baby. Well, the puppy. She’d spent a small fortune on doggy day care, which meant that he’d been trained surprisingly quickly in basic things like potty-training, but his recall could be erratic, to put it mildly. His terrier nose meant that he often got caught up in what he was doing and his ears just seemed to go out of service.
The Telephone Box Library Page 6