Milly Johnson is a joke-writer, greetings card copywriter, newspaper columnist, after-dinner speaker, poet, winner of Come Dine With Me, Sunday Times Top Ten author and winner of a Romantic Comedy of the Year award in 2014 and 2016.
She is half-Yorkshire, half-Glaswegian so 1) don’t mess with her and 2) don’t expect her to buy the first round.
She likes cruising on big ships, sparkling afternoon teas and birds of prey, in particular owls. She does not like marzipan or lamb chops.
She is proud patron of Yorkshire Cat Rescue (www.yorkshirecatrescue.org), The Well, a complementary therapy centre for cancer patients and the Barnsley Youth Choir (www.barnsleyyouthchoir.org.uk) who have conquered the world and are now moving onto other planets.
She lives happily in Barnsley with Pete, her long-suffering partner, Tez and George, her teenage lads, Teddy the dog, Hernan Crespo, Vincent and Theo the cats and Alan Rickman the rabbit. Her mam and dad live in t’next street.
Sunshine Over Wildflower Cottage is her twelfth book.
Find out more at www.millyjohnson.co.uk or follow Milly on Twitter @millyjohnson
Also by Milly Johnson
The Yorkshire Pudding Club
The Birds & the Bees
A Spring Affair
A Summer Fling
Here Come the Girls
An Autumn Crush
White Wedding
A Winter Flame
It’s Raining Men
The Teashop on the Corner
Afternoon Tea at the Sunflower Café
Ebook only:
The Wedding Dress
Here Come the Boys
Ladies Who Launch
The Barn on Half Moon Hill
First published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd 2016
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Copyright © Millytheink Ltd., 2016
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This book is dedicated to all the wonderful pets I’ve had over the years. From the many goldfish I rescued from fayres, to the battalion of beautiful cats I’ve adopted. From the budgie we had that couldn’t fly properly and used to divebomb into walls, to the gorgeous dogs who looked at me as if I was Angelina Jolie. From the hamster with the Guinness Book of Records stretchy cheeks, to the white rabbit who just wandered up the street and into my heart. They have brought me far more than I ever gave them and I have loved them all so much. I consider myself very lucky that they were part of my life and our family.
Author’s Note
In 1985 my path crossed with the actress Shirley Stelfox’s. I was on my summer vacation from university working in a hotel in Wales and Shirley was part of a film crew staying there. She was party to all my ambitions to be an actress and then witness to my crisis when I realised that I was totally on the wrong track. Really, all I ever wanted to do was write books but didn’t feel I would ever be good enough. So Shirley made me put down my serving tray, sit with her and not move until we had sorted out my life. She told me that it was absolute nonsense not to give my dreams everything I had to make them come true and that if I didn’t believe in myself, why would anyone else?
So I did give them my best shot – and they did come true. And I never dared to contact her and tell her what impact her kind words had upon me because I didn’t think she’d remember me. Then on 7 December 2015 Shirley died without ever knowing what she’d done for me. Learn from me and always deliver the thank-yous that grow in your heart.
And never underestimate the power of a small kindness. A ripple at one end of the ocean can cause a tsunami at the other.
God bless you, Shirley Stelfox – and thank you.
We can judge the heart of a man by how he treats his animals
IMMANUEL KANT
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Epilogue
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 anyway? 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 unpredictable 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 called The Lady of the Lake on the other. 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 café. 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 café 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 sh
e 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.’
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