by Ashe Barker
“Nice dog.” Seems like the most appropriate thing to say. And I desperately hope he is or I’m a goner. I’m not scared of dogs, not in the normal run of things, but this dog is not in the least normal.
“That’s Barney,” announces the budding artist. “And I’m Rosie. And you’re going to live in Uncle Tom’s house. We’re going to take you there ’cause my daddy says you’ll never find it on your own.”
Ah, right. I really should respond but I can’t take my eyes off the monster of a dog.
“Don’t you be worrying about Barney, love. He’s a big old softie.” Mrs Richardson takes pity on me as she’s bustling around the room collecting teacups from a cupboard. She shoves Barney out of the way as she places them on the table with a clatter and proceeds to pour two cups of tea. “Just you sit yourself down. You must be ready for a nice cup of tea after coming all that way. I’ve got some lovely fresh scones just out of the oven as well, if you fancy one.”
Ah, scones, not bread. Still, my stomach is growling and I’m grateful for the plate of warm scones that suddenly appears next to my teacup, complete with butter dish and a pot of strawberry jam. Afternoon tea, how very civilized. Unfortunately afternoon tea manners were never my strong point—not much call for that sort of thing living in a squat with Kenny, or in HMP Eastwood Park—so I settle for mumbling my thanks, sit down alongside Rosie, and get stuck in. And Barney seems to decide I’m harmless enough so he downgrades his defcon from red to blue and wanders back to his rug by the Aga. Which is a great relief.
There then ensue ten minutes or so of companionable chewing and sipping, during which Mrs Richardson tops my tea up twice and Rosie shoves one of her catalogues at me with instructions to “Find a nice green, one that’ll do for a deep sea frog.” It’s to be a marine scene then, this collage. I do as I’m told and she seems satisfied with my selection as she then entrusts me with the choice of color for a turtle. I’m offered no guidelines so settle for a dark gray from the men’s tailoring section. Rosie is not so impressed, explaining patiently that it really needs to be orange. I thank her for her advice and turn to the kids’ clothes section, trying not to get any jam on the pages.
A further ten minutes go by, and it seems we’ve polished off six scones between the three of us, the teapot’s empty and we’ve reached a natural break in the underwater collage project. Mrs Richardson suddenly gathers the dirty cups and plates, arranges them into a neat pile then scurries over to the sink with them.
“Right, must get on. Let’s get your stuff and be going. You’ll want to see your new place in daylight, I expect. Come on, Rosie, love, give me a hand, would you?”
My stuff?
Rosie hops down from the table and follows Mrs Richardson out of the kitchen. Barney pads off after them. A couple of minutes later the procession troops back in. Rosie’s carrying a pile of linen—sheets, towels, tea towels. And Mrs Richardson has a large cardboard box that she dumps on the table. I glance into it and see a selection of groceries—teabags, eggs, a couple of tins of soup, a small loaf, washing-up liquid. Going to her own huge fridge she next grabs a carton of milk and some butter, and drops them into the box too.
“Just a few bits to get you started. Tom thought you’d probably not have anything so he asked us to make up a sort of welcome pack for you. Like we do for the tourists who come. Just till you can get some shopping done. The cottage is furnished, and you’re supposed to supply your own bedding and such like, but just in case you haven’t got any of that sort of thing yet, I thought you might like to borrow a few things from us.”
I never expected this. I’m stunned, overwhelmed at the generosity of strangers. And it’s such a welcome surprise because I had never given a moment’s thought to what I might eat once I arrived. Or sleep in. I threw a packet of Go-Cat and Sadie’s favorite cushion into the car boot for her, but never thought about me. I start to thank her, but Mrs Richardson just waves my words away.
“Don’t be daft, love. Can’t have you going hungry up there, can we? There’s a vending machine to get more supplies when you need them—we’ll drive past that way so’s you know where it is.”
Did I hear right? A vending machine?
My astonished expression makes Rosie giggle. “My daddy thought of it. He said we needed a shop up near here so we could buy milk. And Uncle Tom said he’d open a farm shop, just for us, if my daddy could find someone to run it who wouldn’t need paying. My daddy said he should put in a vending machine at the farm gate. So he did. It sells eggs, milk, bread and potatoes. Oh, and bacon sometimes. Hikers use it mostly, and the people who come to the festival. But we do, too. I want him to put chocolate in it as well but he hasn’t done yet.”
I’m impressed. “Oh wow, that’s brilliant. Especially if your clever Uncle Tom sees sense about the chocolate.” Me and Rosie are obviously on the same wavelength here. “What festival?”
Mrs Richardson explains. “Tom and Mr Darke—that’s Rosie’s father, he lives here. I’m his housekeeper and I look after Rosie most of the time. Well, they’re business partners, like I said. They run a few businesses together, and one of them’s a rock festival. It’s in September next year, on land owned by Tom, but the access for vehicles has to come through our land. So it’s a joint venture really. They’ve done it twice before and it’s very popular. Young people come from all over the north of England, camp out for two or three days. They get through a lot of milk, eggs, that sort of thing. So we like to sell it to them. Nice fresh local produce. Better than Pot Noodles and such rubbish.”
Personally I do have a soft spot for Pot Noodles, but I don’t think I need trouble Mrs Richardson with that just now. So, business partners then, not… Well, not what I was thinking. Maybe my gender will matter after all.
I don’t have time to ponder that issue, though, before Mrs Richardson and Rosie are grabbing their bundles together and trooping out of the back door with them. I follow, and see my supplies disappearing into the back of a Land Rover Discovery parked at the rear of the house. Barney follows my groceries, settling himself in the remaining space alongside them. I hope he doesn’t decide to help himself to my butter, but decide not to argue the point with him.
“Oo, nearly forgot. Here are your keys.” Mrs Richardson pulls a small set of keys from her pocket and presses them into my hand. “We’ll lead the way. You just follow us in your car, love.” Mrs Richardson smiles brightly at me as she clambers up into the driver’s seat of the Discovery. Rosie is already fastening her seatbelt in the passenger side. Without further discussion or ado I scoot around the house to the front where my Clio is waiting, Sadie yowling grumpily from the back seat. I just have time to get the engine started as the Discovery rolls past me. I stick the car in gear and follow.
Chapter Four
After a drive of ten minutes or so through winding country lanes, via the vending machine of course, and where I definitely would have got hopelessly lost if I’d tried to find the place on my own, we pull up outside my new home.
Smithy’s Forge is beautiful, even lovelier than I had hoped and imagined. It’s absolutely my dream cottage. All my Christmases come at once. The pictures in the brochure did not do it justice, nowhere close.
Mrs Richardson parks the Discovery on the road in front, waving me into the little parking space at the side of the tiny house. I get out, Sadie’s cat basket dangling awkwardly from my left hand, while I clutch my new door key in my right. I stand by my little garden gate, gazing at the place. My jaw must have been just about resting on the Yorkshire stone-flagged path because Mrs Richardson interrupts my reverie with a sharp nudge and instructs me to “Stop catching flies, lass. Can’t be standing about out here when there’s work to be done.”
Called to attention, I hurry up to the door and slide the key into the lock, idly noticing that it’s one of those top-quality security ones that Kenny used to hate because they make a burglar’s life so complicated. It turns easily, and I’m in. Or should I say, we’re in.
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nbsp; I open the door and step inside, Mrs Richardson, Rosie and that carthorse of a so-called dog hard on my heels. I place Sadie’s basket carefully on the table in front of the mullioned window that looks out onto my garden. Sadie’s spitting venomously at Barney, who seems totally unmoved by her performance, preferring to saunter around aimlessly banging into chairs and sniffing in corners. I’d have maybe thought he was checking for mice, but the place is spotless and perfectly tidy. I have a hunch that Mrs Richardson’s responsible for that. And I dare say I’ll soon mess the place up, but hey, it’s nice to start with a clean sheet. In more ways than I can imagine probably.
Bustling around and obviously familiar with the layout, Mrs Richardson soon gets to grips with things. Her first task is to send Rosie to fetch some logs from the log pile around the side of the cottage. Mrs Richardson turns to me earnestly, has crucial survival information to impart. “Tom thought you’d maybe need some logs to get started with, so he dumped a load the other day. They sell logs down in Haworth, or you can get more from Tom when you get low. You don’t want to run out, though—the log burner’s what heats the place and gives you your hot water. Do you know how to light it?”
I shake my head, completely defeated by the sturdy-looking little stove. Mrs Richardson has opened the door in the front and is piling crumpled newspapers in the bottom of it. “You start with newspaper, like this. You’ll have to save any you get. And then you pile some kindling on top.” She demonstrates this further art before turning to me. “You light it, like this.” She makes busy with a box of matches, lighting the newspaper balls, then closes the little glass door and sits back on her haunches to admire the rapidly climbing fingers of flame. “When it starts to burn the kindling you put a couple of logs on. Not before.” She grabs a huge protective gauntlet from on top of the stove and shoves her right hand inside before opening the door again. She reaches inside to drop a couple of chunky logs on top of the small fire. Waggling her gauntleted hand at me she issues another dire warning. “Make sure you put the fire glove on, though. Don’t want any nasty accidents. Remember, even the door handle is hot enough to burn. Nice dry logs are best. You can bring some inside to be drying. And when it gets going nicely you can close these flaps underneath, slows it down a bit and your logs last longer. You’ll get the hang of it. You’ll have to, else you’ll be pretty chilly round here. Give us a shout if you get stuck.”
She leaves me to marvel at the friendly little log burner crackling happily in my living room as she bustles on, sorting me out as she thinks fit. In no time my bed’s made up and my—well, her—towels are laid out in the tiny shower-cum-toilet. Rosie stacks my welcome pack tins and other groceries in the kitchenette cupboard while I drag my holdall and laptop in from the car.
By the time I get back inside, Rosie’s let Sadie out of her cat basket and I arrive just in time to see my suicidal little cat swipe the huge dog across the face with all her claws outstretched. Incredibly, Barney gives what I can only describe as the canine equivalent of a shrug and plonks himself down on the doormat to wait for us to all stop flapping around. Sadie’s yowling is getting near enough ear-splitting before I realize the poor thing hasn’t had a drink of water for hours. I splash a bowl down for her in the kitchenette and she laps at it furiously, every so often looking up to hiss at Barney. Eventually, when she’s done, she takes up residence in one of the small fireside chairs. Barney edges his way over and slurps up what’s left in the bowl. And so their pecking order is decided.
After half an hour or so Mrs Richardson’s happy that I’m as comfortable and well sorted as she can make me, so she, Rosie and Barney all pile back into the Discovery, leaving me alone at last to explore my new home. As she’s leaving, Mrs Richardson shoves a slip of paper into my hand with a mobile number on it. “That’s Tom’s number. He asked if you’d mind texting him when you’ve a minute, just to let him know you’ve arrived safe and everything’s okay.” I nod. It’s the least I can do I suppose when he’s been so considerate.
Good evening, Mr Shore. Arrived OK. Cottage lovely. Thanks for groceries. And logs. Ashley M.
Grace told me. You’re welcome. Tom
Did she tell you I’m a woman? Ashley
She did. Tom
And that I have a cat? Ashley
That too. Tom
And?
And???
And is it a problem?
I repeat, you’re welcome. Both of you.
I manage to stop myself sending a smiley face. Result!
I spend the rest of my first evening relaxing. I take a long hot shower, warm up a tin of soup and dip some of Mrs Richardson’s fresh-baked bread in it. Then I pig out on more of her scones I find in my bread bin. I gather from Mrs Richardson—the fount of all local wisdom and knowledge—that the nearest food shops are in Haworth, about five miles away. I’ll drive down there tomorrow, get properly stocked up on junk food. I also want to check out the tourist shops, especially anything remotely like an art gallery where I might be able to get my prints on display.
I clamber into bed, exhausted, at about nine thirty. Despite everything, I muse, life’s good. It hasn’t always been, but just now, it’s really pretty peachy.
* * * *
The next three days are occupied exploring my new neighborhood and setting up my housekeeping, such as it is. I’m no domestic goddess, but I can warm up a ready meal or two. And Mrs Richardson seems inclined to help feed me too. The day after I arrived she phoned to ask if I wanted to have tea with her and Rosie. I accepted. We had home-made ham and mushroom pizza and ice cream to finish. Rosie’s favorite I gather. Mine too probably.
The famous vending machine is about a fifteen-minute walk from Smithy’s Forge and does indeed stock fresh milk, eggs, spuds, bacon and bread. I even had to queue to use it because I arrived just after a bunch of about fifteen Japanese hikers, all wanting to top up their supplies and lug them along the Brontë Way. And those bags of spuds don’t look especially light to me. Still, who am I to comment?
Quite often I meet up with Rosie and Barney as I’m strolling up the moorland hills behind my cottage looking for some decent viewpoints to photograph. I’m eager to start building my portfolio. Turns out Rosie knows these moors like the back of her hand, a proper little Emily Brontë in the making, and she has appointed herself as my guide. She shows me the tourist hotspots of Brontë Falls and Top Withens as well as some of her own favorite places. My collection of landscapes is looking quite promising.
My choice to relocate here in West Yorkshire was not random or casual. This location is perfect for what I have in mind. My plan is to build up a range of pictures, especially panoramics, celebrating and showcasing the natural beauty of this area. The best of these I’ll have professionally printed, some onto canvas, others as posters. And I’ll negotiate with local tourist trade retailers to stock my stuff, sell it in situ, to visitors and locals. But mainly visitors, I expect. I’ve already spotted a couple of likely outlets in Haworth, so now I need some decent samples of my artwork to show them. My proposition will be that I will supply the stuff to them for free—they’ll display it, sell it and take a cut of the proceeds. There’s little or no risk to my partners, no outlay required from them, so I’m optimistic I’ll get some takers.
Once I’ve established myself here, I can look at other areas in the vicinity. The Yorkshire Dales are only an hour or so away, the North York Moors a little farther. The Lake District is two hours away, so is the Peak District. I intend to develop my materials in each of those places, identify local outlets to partner with, and replicate my model in other tourist areas, the national parks and areas of outstanding natural beauty. And once I’m done with those, and if I want to venture farther afield, there’s Snowdonia to start on.
Oh yes, this place is ideal.
This is my fourth day here now, and I’m just beginning to feel I’ve got the lie of the land a bit now. I’ve had my tea at Black Combe twice, and it’s a wonderful feeling to have friends. Jus
t ordinary, nice friends. I know which shops to head for in Haworth. I’ve made myself known at the post office in case there’s any mail for me from Gloucester University or my solicitor. I’ve got a form from the medical center to register with a GP—important because I tend to suffer from violent migraines. There’s medication I can take to help control the problem—the prison doctor prescribed it for me and it worked a treat—so I need to get a supply sorted out here. Even Sadie seems to have gotten over the trauma of the trip up here and her introduction to Barney, and is content to snooze her life away on her favorite cushion.
It’s late afternoon following another delightful and fruitful excursion up onto the surrounding moorland. It’s been a misty day, damp and drizzling, with absolutely fabulous lights and shades up on the moorland hills. I have some absolutely stunning shots to work with, even if I do say so myself. I was soaking wet when I arrived back at Smithy’s Forge, courtesy of a sudden downpour as I was making my way home, so I took a quick shower when I got in. I was so excited about today’s pictures I just pulled my old toweling bathrobe on before getting to work on editing today’s shots. I tied the belt tightly around my waist, thinking I could dry underneath it and get dressed later. Or not. Since I live completely alone now it’s up to me.
I’m completely engrossed in tweaking and tinkering with my pictures via the wonders of Photoshop, my laptop set up on the table by the window to benefit from the best light, when a sharp knock at the door rattles around my quiet little home.
Startled, for a moment I forget where I am, forget that this is a safe place. My home now. I stifle the urge to hide, and instead call out, deliberately shoe-horning at least the suggestion of confidence into my voice, “Who is it?”
A male voice answers, “Tom Shore.”
Tom Shore. My landlord. I need to thank him properly for the welcome pack and the logs. And for directing me to Black Combe first instead of leaving me to try to find this place on my own. And for letting me keep my cat. I glance out of the window and see a battered, khaki-colored Land Rover parked on the narrow road outside. I’d have preferred to meet my new landlord fully dressed, but I guess I’m decent enough in my ankle-length thick toweling bathrobe. And he has turned up unexpectedly, he can’t really complain. I leap up, pull my belt nice and tight round my waist, and pad barefoot across the room to open the door, a big smile plastered across my face.