“Mum passed away in February last year and the farm needed an injection of cash. Me and Dad didn’t have the time or the creative ability to look after the cottage and its gardens, or to cope with the demands of the rental business, but still, it was a wrench when it was sold, particularly for Dad. It’s good to see a family enjoying the place. Mum would have loved that. Not sure on her view as to the garden maintenance though.” He threw her a mischievous smile, a twinkle in his cerulean eyes. “What happened to the roof?” His firm hand gestured to the sunken gable.
“It caved in during the February snow. I can’t afford to get it fixed. Bit of cash injection needed into the Mathews household too.” She laughed, glancing over at the For Sale board guiltily.
Josh didn’t pry. “Is Max frightened of all animals or just dogs?”
“He’s a non-discriminatory coward when it comes to animals, I’m afraid. He’s not used to them, being a child of the grimy London suburbs. I’d love him to spend more time here, conquer his phobia, run free in the fields like I did when I was a kid.”
“Well, why don’t you visit the farm this afternoon? He can help me and Poppy corral the sheep—we’ve got thirty Northumberland Blackface sheep.
“These,” he nodded toward the munching cows, “are Holstein Friesian cows, produce fabulous milk. Before Mum passed away, we kicked around the idea of producing our own ice cream commercially, using their milk and the organic fruit from our orchard at the farm and here at Rosemary Cottage. There’s an orchard at the bottom of the back garden, you know, but, well, Mum became ill, and Dad and I have enough on our hands.
“Then there’re the four mares we stable for the girls at Hexham riding school. That should give Max a varied introduction to the ‘wild’ animals of Northumberland!” He released a deep, throaty laugh.
Rebecca noticed his handsome, strongly-etched features, skin bronzed by the outdoor life in the summer sun, even in his ancient green wax jacket and mud-splashed wellies, she appreciated his bold, taut physique.
Josh did not fall into her preconceived image of a farmer’s son, nor was he the usual type she found attractive, as far away from Bradley’s immaculately groomed, self-image-obsessed smoothness as you could get. But that’s what belied his charm. He had no self-conscious hang ups about his fashion choices, and what was the point undergoing a ridiculous monthly manicure, like Bradley did, when he was a farmer! In fact, she could almost envisage Josh and his rugby-playing pals swirling their pints of Irish ale, wrecking the questionable reputations of men like Bradley who only drank vintage champagne.
“He’d love to, and I would, too. Are you sure?”
“Dad’ll enjoy having a young boy to show ’round the farm. See you later then, and bring the metal detector, Max. I’d love to have a go. There’s been some interesting finds in this area being so close to the Roman Wall!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Later that afternoon, Rebecca and Max soaped off the mud from their horticultural toils and headed out for their daily visit to St Oswald’s Lodge.
The familiar grip of guilt tightened her chest as she sped past the glorious façade of Morningside Towers, the lips of the pedestalled, winged horses guarding the entry gates snarling at her poor choice of care home for her father. She shoved her self-reproach to the recesses of her mind, recalling Claudia’s assurances that George loved St Oswald. The food was homemade and wholesome, featuring his favourite steamed puddings, the staff were down-to-earth, motherly types, able to spare time for a chat about the old days or the residents’ beloved families.
Still, Rebecca recollected the article Nathan had thrust under her nose in his copy of The Community Care magazine, which revealed devastating stories of the poor care and support provided by two residential homes catering for the needs of the elderly with dementia in the East Midlands. She’d studied the exposé with hot tears coursing down her cheeks, flabbergasted at the depths to which human beings could sink.
Rebecca had freaked out, powerless to upgrade her father’s care to the desired Morningside Towers, the cheaper option of St Oswald’s Lodge being necessary because of her own selfish decisions—her father, like Max, having to suffer the consequences.
It had taken Deb all her powers of persuasion, for which she was legendary, to calm Rebecca’s frazzled nerves and reassure her there were no recorded issues with St Oswald. On the contrary, after forcing Rebecca to study their website, the home had received an outstanding report from its latest Care Quality Commission’s inspection.
Nevertheless, she still held out for an imminent sale of Rosemary Cottage, and then a transfer for George to the luxurious Morningside Towers, where the staff wore crisp, white starched uniforms creating the impression of a swish health spa, rather than a residential care home for the elderly. But it would be months before she could achieve that aim, even if the cottage sold this summer. She had no other means of accomplishing her dearest wish—no self-respecting financial institution would part with its ill-gotten gains to a bankrupt and it was as unlikely as snow in August she would secure an increase in her salary. Even now, the fees for St Oswald’s Lodge were mounting up. She dreaded the next overdue demand.
Max, familiar with the routine, shot off into the residents’ lounge before her, in search of the only grandparent he had ever known. Her dad rested his spindly hand on Max’s spiky head with love in his fading blue eyes. As he perched on the tapestry footstool next to his granddad, Max chattered away about his metal detector, his encounter with Poppy the sheep dog, and their invitation to visit the farm where they would embark on a quest for hidden treasure.
“Hi, Dad. How are you today?” She settled on his other side, drawing his cold, slender hand in her own.
“Oh, you know, Becky love, the old bones are creaking, but mustn’t complain. It’s better than the alternative.” He smiled, slowly meeting her anxious green eyes. “Don’t you worry about me, worry about this little one. He deserves to be in the hub of a happy, settled family, not rattling around with just the two of you in that lonely, dingy flat in London. He told me yesterday he hadn’t seen his dad since Christmas. Is that true?”
“Bradley has a busy schedule, Dad,” she started, but then relented. Why should she defend Bradley’s disgraceful attitude toward his son? “You’re right, Dad, you’re right. It is my goal, you know. Deb and Nathan at work are cracking the dating whip, rest assured.”
“Good, pet, good. How’re those interior design classes going? Think you may have inherited that particular talent from me. Remember that potter’s wheel I had when you were young? You loved moulding the sticky grey clay. And the kiln? Made your mum all sorts of modern ceramic art. Not sure she appreciated them all.” He smiled weakly.
Rebecca had had this conversation with her dad every afternoon they visited St Oswald’s Lodge that week, but she didn’t care. She loved reminiscing with George, but she was concerned he was fading before her eyes. She wished with all her heart she was able to breathe some of her own life into his tired, skeletal body, restoring the dad she remembered as a child—strong, dependable, creative, but most of all fun!
“We’re still designing our stained glass panels. Remember I told you I’m working on a piece for Deb and Fergus’s wedding?”
But George had drifted off to sleep again, his chin slumped on his chest. Max jumped up from his perch.
“Granddad’s sleeping now, Mum. Let’s go to Josh’s farm!”
Rebecca kissed her dad, placing his translucent hand on the red tartan blanket wrapped around his legs. She would have happily sat with him all afternoon, waiting for him to wake, resuming an identical conversation, but it wasn’t fair to Max. She swallowed the threatening tears only as far as her chest where they merged with the lead weight already lodged solid there.
“Come on then, tiger. Let’s pay those animals a visit.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he said softly.
CHAPTER TWENTY
They sauntered into the farmyard surrounded by a jumble
of barns and outhouses, wellies squelching in the mud. Max had chattered excitedly in the car naming all the animals he would see, but as they approached the barn, he pulled back on Rebecca’s arm, his sleeve end firmly in his jaw.
“I don’t like those cows, Mum. They’re huge. Can you carry me?”
Rebecca lifted Max onto her hip, his green frog wellies dangling around her legs, sketching lines of black mud across her ill-advised white jeans.
“Hi again! Hi, Max. Great to see you,” called Josh from the farmhouse’s paint-blistered front door, his smile relaxed and welcoming. “Let’s start with the sheep. Poppy has done a great job rounding them up and they’re waiting in the field behind the old barn.”
On home turf, his presence exuded raw physicality. He had discarded the scruffy wax jacket—his broad muscular shoulders stretched his navy and crimson rugby shirt, open at the neck, revealing a suggestion of golden chest hair. His stride was long, measured, and confident as he led them, scampering in his wake, to the meadow behind the barn, delivering Rebecca the opportunity to study him from behind. Her eyes meandered to his firm, taut buttocks and she experienced a surprising jolt of sexual desire.
They had arrived at the field gate. Josh turned, catching Rebecca’s eyes trained on his backside. She assumed her heated face matched her paprika-red roots.
Smirking, he reached out to collect Max from Rebecca’s arms, balancing him on his own firm thigh, dangling him low to stroke the soft curly wool of the black-faced sheep. Initially tentative, Max’s confidence blossomed as the sheep remained still, disinterested in the fondling.
“Can I take a sheep home for a pet, Mum?”
“It would certainly help keep the garden tidy. Not sure about the flowers though.” Rebecca laughed, enjoying herself immensely, caressing the silky wool on the back of the sheep nearest to her. “Their fleeces are so velvety—do they produce wool as soft? I’d adore a hand-knitted jumper in this yarn!”
“Dad and I agreed that the only way the farm is going to survive into the future is to diversify. Unfortunately, we’re not skilled in the craft of knitting.” He laughed.
Rebecca tried to envisage Josh with a pair of wooden needles but the image was incongruous, his large hands seemed more adept at handling a rugby ball or grasping a struggling sheep between his firm legs than wiggling knitting pins. Again, she experienced an exquisite stab of lust as she easily visualised his long, muscular legs, naked, splattered in mud from a rugby field.
Pull yourself together, Rebecca.
“The reason we sold Rosemary Cottage after Mum passed away was to allow Dad and I to start the complicated process of drawing up plans and apply for planning permission for six properties—two barn conversions and four new, stone-built houses over in the bottom field, just beyond that oak tree.”
Josh settled Max more securely on his hip, fastened the wooden gate, tying the posts with thick rope, and then they made their way back to the courtyard for lemonade.
“I studied structural engineering at university, loved it. Never a dull moment! The course encompassed a diverse spectrum of talents—maths, science, art, design, technology, geography, computing, take your pick. I worked for a cutting-edge company of structural engineers in London, a generalist at first as I learned the ropes, but my true interest lies in forensic engineering.”
They perched at the ancient wooden patio table sipping cold lemonade, Max digging hungrily into a bag of salt and vinegar crisps, Poppy drooling by his side, chasing any stray morsel and producing fits of giggles from Max.
“I know what you mean about having a passion. Mine is for interior design. But what’s forensic engineering?” Rebecca watched as Josh’s bright blue eyes widened with enthusiasm, clearly relishing the opportunity to relive his passion. She selected a thick curl, twisting it slowly around her finger as she gave Josh her full attention.
“Often structures fail to perform. Some are damaged by natural disasters, such as floods or earthquakes, whilst others are destroyed by terrorism—the Twin Towers, for example. Some fail due to human error in the design or the build. By studying the process of collapse, we can learn how to build stronger, more resistant structures in the future.”
“Why did you give that up? You speak so passionately about it.”
His face softened, his eyes dropped to the cracked, silver-grey table, “Mum became ill—breast cancer—and Dad was struggling with the farm. It was a no-brainer really. Mum and Dad needed me here, so I came. That’s why Dad agreed to sell Rosemary Cottage after Mum died and to pursue the application for planning permission for the properties—to create a project I could get my teeth into.”
Josh spoke without a trace of bitterness or self-pity for the loss of what could have been a glittering career. “Alicia, my girlfriend at the time, refused to move ‘up north’, so we parted company. That was two years ago. She’s married now, would you believe, expecting twins at Christmas.
“Anyway, we heard last week that planning permission has been granted, subject to numerous conditions. We’re toying with selling a couple of the plots to self-builders, then to build the other two and complete the barn conversions ourselves, well, me mainly, as hands-on project manager. Dad thinks I need more hassle than the farm can throw at me!
“I spoke to the estate agent who handled Rosemary Cottage. He reckons he can sell the two self-build plots straight away, which would give us the start-up capital for the others.
“I have to say, I was surprised you snapped up the cottage without a full structural survey. I made it clear to Jeremy Goldacre there was an issue with the gable end, made sure he agreed to disclose this to any potential purchaser, even put this stipulation in writing. I see what I had anticipated happened with the first heavy snowfall.”
Rebecca removed the end of her lock of hair from her mouth. “What? You told Jeremy Goldacre about the roof? He didn’t mention anything to me about a problem with the roof when I viewed. He even said, in his expert opinion, it was a sound little investment, no need for an expensive survey. I paid cash so didn’t need a survey for a mortgage. I realised buying without a survey was naïve, I should have known better, but at the time I made a number of stupid decisions and I just wanted the transaction to go through as quickly as possible.” Her green eyes flashed.
Josh experienced a stirring in his stomach.
“Mind you, even if he had described the place as infested with rats and teeming with cockroaches, I would still have bought it. I had my head in the clouds and my brain in the deep freeze, dreaming of raising a happy family under its roof in the idyllic Northumberland countryside. Rosemary Cottage is so pretty, it sucked me in with its magic.”
“Mum loved it, too. She tended that garden and its orchard until the day she died. It was her second child, Dad always teased her.”
“I’m sorry about your mum. I lost my mum five years ago. Not a day goes by without a thought, a wish sent in her direction. My dad, George, lives at St Oswald’s Lodge—we’ve just visited him, left him snoozing in the sunshine. He’s frail but we reminisce every visit about his beloved Marianne.”
“Yes, Dad struggles sometimes. He’s a tough, rough-and-ready farmer. People don’t expect him to have a gentle heart. But he’s not prone to self-pity, so we both just get on with it. Bit worried about the current owner of Rosemary Cottage though and the deplorable state of its garden,” he added mischievously.
“Dad’s relinquishing the reins of the farm over to me step by step, keen to start on plans for diversification. I think the project has given him a new lease on life. I was surprised when he agreed we should apply for planning permission for the properties in the lower field, but he wants me to have a future at the farm. The other alternative was to sell up, for me to return to London, but I can’t envisage Dad existing for long in a suburban semi in Newcastle. His world is here, amongst the animals he loves, and I have to admit so is mine, but the farming alone doesn’t come close to breaking even.”
He drained his glas
s, setting it on the table thoughtfully. “I’m concerned to hear Jeremy failed to disclose the issue of the gable end to you, especially after I specifically asked him to do so. He gave me his promise. Might speak to him about it. Dad knows Geoffrey Goldacre, his father—it’s his estate agency business. Had it for the last forty years with his own father. Geoffrey Goldacre was always honourable in his dealings.
“Come on, Max. Let’s try and get that metal detector buzzing. Lots of nooks and crannies to scout out in the farmyard and the fields. We might even find some treasure!” He dusted his hand over the top of his auburn head, just as excited as Max.
They rushed off ahead of Rebecca to collect the contraption from the back of her silver car, Josh’s strong frame and long stride a contrast to Max’s little legs as they peddled to keep abreast of him. Knowing men and boys loved any new gadget, she decided to resume her bum-numbing seat in the courtyard and await their return.
She turned her face toward the warm sunshine, basking in the peace and tranquility, broken only by the grumble of a cow ready to milk and an occasional high-pitched squeal from the metal detector or Max, she wasn’t sure which.
Twenty minutes later, they returned to the courtyard laughing and shouting. Max darted up to her, his hand full of ‘treasure’—an assortment of rusty nails, screws, and the fantastic find of an old pitted silver horseshoe.
“Look, Mum, a horse’s shoe. Josh says I can keep it. It’s real treasure, you know. Josh says the shoe will bring us luck!” He rushed over to the stone drinking trough to scrub the silver arc to a shine. Josh perched on the bench, so close to Rebecca her hair follicles rose.
“Max informs me he wants to go to the village school here in Matfen because a boy called Stanley bullies him at nursery. Is that true? I thought bullying was stamped out in schools these days as soon as it rears its ugly head?”
The Wish List Addiction Page 11