This is a final demand for payment of building rates. Unless a payment of £4,000 is received within ten days . . .
Ella looked up at the calendar and down at the stark wording of the letter.
‘Ella?’ Bron called through from the sitting room. ‘You all right out there?’
‘It’s nothing. Yes. I mean, I’m fine.’ She shoved the letter back in the envelope, the page crumpling at the corner as she did so.
Bron had taken thirty years to pluck up the courage to do something for herself. The least she could do now was let her aunt go, and deal with this without giving her a reason to hesitate.
God, she was going to have to sell a kidney or something – and fast. She’d been drifting for far too long, managing to squeak by from one month to the next, and she’d always pushed the nagging worry that she should have something put away for a rainy day to one side. The bottom had fallen out of the horse market, too, so even if she wanted to sell one of them – which she couldn’t bear to think of – there wouldn’t be any point. She knew of breeders who were giving their horses away.
Horses were an expensive business, and she’d been happily complacent, not getting out of her comfort zone – ironically, given she spent most of her therapy hours gently encouraging her clients to do just that. The little website she’d had designed years back brought in a gentle trickle of enquiries, and the clients she already had passed on a steady supply of word-of-mouth recommendations. But this bill was in a different league altogether.
Biting her lip, Ella pushed herself up to standing. She still had to get ready to go out. Whatever was going to happen would have to wait until tomorrow, at least. She shoved the letter into the back pocket of her jeans and climbed the stairs.
Chapter Two
Jenny
Despite being old enough to know better – old enough, she thought to herself, to be his mother – Jenny couldn’t help admiring the removal man’s bottom as he bent over, dropping the crate with an alarming thud on the flagstone floor of the cottage. She was a girl of twenty not that long ago – only . . . forty-five years? Good God. She was old enough to be his grandmother. It was amazing how age crept up on you when you weren’t looking.
She slipped past the removal man and stood for a moment, looking at the cottage as it stood in the low afternoon sunlight. It was whitewashed and timbered, the low roof sheltering windows that were set deep into thick stone walls, protecting the inhabitants against the wind, which must blow fiercely through the valley. She wrapped her arms around her chest, realizing that despite the warmth she felt from all the rushing around, out here there was a chill in the air. A couple of pale climbing roses were still blooming bravely on the bush that grew up the side of the back door, and in the wooden planters some hardy pelargoniums were holding on, warmed by the late October sunshine they’d had across the country. Through the open stable door she could see the removal men stacking the last of the boxes neatly against the ancient wood of the staircase. The cottage was hundreds of years old, and full of history. And now they’d landed here to add their voices to the ones that echoed through the walls – Jenny smiled at the thought. It had been a crazy idea, and the last-minute panic had set everyone on high alert, but she had a feeling everything was going to be fine. Later she’d nip down to the little supermarket in the village. Maybe the bakery would have some bread left over – dinner could just be cheese and bits and pieces – Hope’s favourite, and hers too. No cooking was always a plus, especially after a long day like today.
‘Nearly done, love.’ One of the removal men – the cheerful one, she’d already named him in her head – carried in a box. ‘What have you got in this? Gold bullion?’ He chuckled.
‘Books.’
‘Blooming heavy ones!’
She smiled and headed back inside, curling her hand around the bundle of keys in her cardigan pocket, feeling their comforting, familiar weight. Car. Ancient keyring from Sarah’s school ski trip to Austria. Big Yale key from the storage place where they’d left the majority of their furniture. And home – well, not any more. Not for the next six months. It had been the most impetuous thing she’d ever done – and Lou, still recuperating from a major heart operation, had gone along with it. They’d rented out their big, airy Georgian house in Norwich to a couple who were new to the area, house-hunting for a place of their own to bring up their two small children. It had been the perfect solution for both families.
Jenny pulled the set of keys out and slid the cottage keys onto the ring. There were so many now, she’d look like a gaoler if she emptied her handbag.
‘Oh, bloody hell!’
There was a thud from the room next door.
‘Grandpa, you’ve broken the lamp.’ A small, shrill voice carried through the hall, echoing off the bare wooden floorboards and the rough whitewashed plaster.
‘That’s us off,’ said the less friendly removal man, thrusting a clipboard in Jenny’s direction. ‘If you can just sign –’
‘Two seconds.’
She waved it away and hurried through, ducking her head to avoid banging it on the low, beamed doorway. The cottage was a complete contrast to their high-ceilinged house in Norwich, and it was going to take some getting used to.
‘What on earth is going on?’
Lou was on his hands and knees, picking up pieces of china that had scattered over the floor. A wooden crate lay on its side on the flagstones, the contents spilling out. Hope was inexpertly stacking the books which had fallen over into a toppling pile and Jenny could only stand and watch as they slid, slowly but inexorably, from the arm of the still-not-in-place sofa to join the muddle of broken vase pieces on the floor.
The removal man poked his head around the door. His eyebrows shot up as he took in the scene.
‘Breakages?’ He sucked his teeth. ‘I’m afraid we only cover the goods in transit . . .’
‘It’s not ours, it belongs to the cottage.’
Jenny suppressed a sigh of irritation. They’d paid an absolute fortune for the removal company so they could make the cottage feel like home for a few months, and they’d done exactly what they were paid to – and not a thing more. Lou’s recovery regime meant he was supposed to be taking things easy, not crashing around unpacking boxes. Perhaps she should have paid for them to sort that out as well. She chewed on the side of her lip for a moment, wondering just how big a tip and how many cups of tea might swing it.
‘If you’re all right to sign this, then –’ he waggled the clipboard again – ‘I need to get this truck back before it gets too late. We’re running behind as it is.’
‘Oh.’ That’s that, then, she thought. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, reaching across and swiping the clipboard from his hands. ‘No real damage done.’ She signed her name and handed it back, absent-mindedly pocketing the biro he’d given her.
‘That’s great.’ He ripped off a pink duplicate copy and handed it to her. ‘Can I have my pen back, please, love, and I’ll get out of your hair.’
‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Lou, closing the door as the removal lorry trundled over the brow of the hill. ‘Now, why don’t I make you some tea, and then I’ll sort out some of this unpacking. Go and put your feet up for a bit.’
He made a shooing motion. Even after the weeks of recuperation, it was still strange to have her husband around all the time. They’d spent all their married life with very firm boundaries: him out at work – long, unpredictable hours which hadn’t changed even when his job as DCI became more office-based.
‘No.’ Jenny was firm. She blocked the doorway to the kitchen and stood in it, not moving, so he had no choice but to duck through the low-ceilinged hallway and into the whitewashed sitting room. She motioned to the plumply stuffed sofa. Hope had already removed the cushions and piled them up on the armchair, where she was now sitting, Princess and the Pea style, reading a tourist information leaflet about Wales.
‘You sit. I will make tea.’
The advantage of a h
oliday rental cottage was that everything they needed was already in place. All they’d had to do was bring along the bits and pieces they needed to make the place homely – only somehow that had extended from a couple of boxes in the car boot, as each of them staked a claim on belongings they couldn’t possibly do without. The kitchen was spotless, if a bit dated, with brown wooden cupboard doors and a fake marble worktop. But the Aga made the room warm and welcoming, and the window looked down the valley towards Llanidaeron itself. Jenny opened the wooden door of the larder and found a wicker basket, filled with everything that the holiday visitors would have needed. There was tea, coffee, and someone had delivered two packs of freshly baked Welsh cakes. Inside the fridge sat a fat roll of local butter wrapped in gold paper and a pint of organic milk from a local dairy, as well as a bottle of wine (‘by way of apology’, the note tied to the neck explained).
When the holiday cottage company rang to say that they’d had a bit of a mix-up, and the cottage they’d signed up for on a special six-month offer for the winter had been taken off the books, she’d almost shot through the roof of their Citroën Picasso with fury. Only the presence of Hope on the back seat, her headphones clamped over her ears but her ever-watchful eyes taking everything in, stopped her from exploding. Instead she’d been completely calm. Or near enough, anyway.
‘We’re incredibly sorry,’ the manager had said, sounding harassed. The reception was terrible – he sounded like he was calling with his head halfway down the loo. ‘This isn’t something that’s ever happened before. But the owners have sold the property – quite unexpectedly – and as it happens we have an absolutely beautiful cottage available in Llanidaeron which is only five miles away, as the crow flies.’
‘We are currently driving towards Llanover,’ Jenny said, through gritted teeth. Lou shifted slightly in the passenger seat, emitting a quiet snore. It was a miracle that he was actually relaxing. If she started losing the plot now, he’d get stressed, and that was the last thing any of them needed.
‘Surely there are clauses? They can’t just withdraw the property without a notice period?’
‘There are, yes – but we’d have to turf you out after a month. This seemed like the best option.’
Why is it never easy, Jenny thought to herself, gritting her teeth.
‘Right. Fine.’ It was only a few months, after all. And the whole point of this was to take them out of their routine a bit. Hope had said she didn’t want to see the cottage before they arrived. So she decided to try and be calm about it. She took a deep breath in. How bad could it be? ‘What’s this new place like?’
‘Absolutely charming.’ She heard the manager’s voice shift, relieved, into sales mode. ‘The most adorable thatched roof, beams everywhere, an old-fashioned iron range in the sitting room, and a master bedroom with a beautiful en suite.’
‘But it does have three bedrooms?’ Jenny flicked a quick glance at Hope in the rear-view mirror. She was chewing a lock of hair, her dark eyes lost in thought.
‘Yes, three and a little office, in fact. I just know you’re going to love it. I’ll come out to meet you myself if it helps – I’ve got a Hallowe’en party for my daughter tonight, but we can swing past?’
‘No need.’ Jenny was firm. The last thing they needed was more people and more stress. Hope had been relatively calm and happy so far and everything – apart from the minor detail of a new house – was going reasonably well. Ish.
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Despite the terrible line, she could hear the obsequious tone in his voice.
‘Completely.’ The last thing they needed was to deal with the manager of Hideaway Holidays on a charm offensive. ‘If you could just message me the postcode.’
And so – having called the removal driver, who was on the road somewhere behind them – they’d typed the new postcode into the satnav, and both Jenny and the driver wondered how five miles as the crow flies managed to add on an extra forty minutes to the drive.
Of course – Jenny lifted the kettle and poured boiling water into two mugs – that had become clear when they’d driven past the sign for Llanover and up a hill. And down another. And back round the side of another hill. Eventually they’d found themselves in Llanidaeron, the pretty little high street nestled in between the shoulders of the green hills on either side of the valley, and driven up, up, along a narrow lane flanked on either side by the bare branches of hawthorn hedges, and pulled into the gateway of Robin Cottage, their home for the next six months.
‘Here you –’ Jenny stopped herself mid-sentence as she opened the door. Lou was sitting, legs stretched out and crossed over, head back against the plump cushions of the armchair. His mouth hung open and for the briefest second she felt her stomach dropping to her feet. Time stood still for a moment. And then he gave a walrus-like snort, waking himself up.
‘What?’
Jenny gave a peal of relieved laughter. ‘Tea.’
She wondered if that feeling of panic would ever go, or if she’d feel a flicker of fear every time she saw him motionless and silent. Losing people – or almost, in Lou’s case – just made you more aware of how precious and fleeting life could be. She passed him the steaming mug, and gave his shoulder a brief, gentle squeeze.
He gave her an odd look but said nothing. She sat down opposite him on the armchair by the fire. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing she’d ever sat on, and she lifted off a prickly woollen rug from the arm and tossed it across to the little wooden coffee table.
‘Here we are then,’ Lou said. ‘Are you pleased with it?’
‘I will be once I’ve got this lot sorted.’
The room was stacked with boxes – a surprising number considering they were only supposed to be bringing the bare minimum – and it all needed to be sorted.
‘What’s Hope doing?’ She’d disappeared from her pile of cushions, leaving a heap of leaflets in her wake.
‘Upstairs,’ Lou said. ‘She’s unpacking, I think.’
Jenny knew what that meant. Chaos. She plonked her mug down on the table and pushed herself out of the chair, suppressing a groan. Her back was protesting after the long drive and she’d have liked nothing more than to collapse in front of the sofa, have a long bath, and deal with everything else tomorrow. But she was responsible for Hope, and eight-year-olds didn’t slow down just because their grandparents were feeling frazzled.
‘I might just check. She’s suspiciously quiet.’
‘Probably drawing or something.’ He reached forward and picked up the remote control. ‘How do you think this thing works? I don’t understand why they can’t all be the same. Where’s the on button?’
The narrow staircase had been there for centuries and the stairs were surprisingly steep. She popped her head in the door of Hope’s bedroom, but she wasn’t there.
‘Darling?’
There was a pause as she waited. Sometimes Hope liked to play hide and seek – usually at the most inopportune times. They’d waited half an hour once when she was four, searching behind the clothes on the hangers in M&S, knowing she’d tucked herself somewhere. The security managers had manned the doors, convinced she’d been abducted, but Jenny had stayed surprisingly calm. Eventually one of them found her, cocooned inside the warm fleece of a dressing gown, apparently unconcerned by the rising panic of every adult in the shop.
And now there was no sign of her under the bed, or – thankfully – in the wardrobe, which seemed quite unstable. It was a beautiful piece of old walnut furniture, but swayed alarmingly when she pulled open the door to check inside.
‘Lou?’ she called down the stairs, ‘No sign of Hope here.’
The responsibility of bringing up her granddaughter weighed heavily. She felt a pang of guilt, thinking about her promise to Sarah to bring her up and give her the security she needed. If Harry was here a bit more, she thought, it wouldn’t be so bloody – she shook her head, feeling guilty for even thinking it. She had to tell herself that he was doing the best he
could. They all were. She had to believe that, even if sometimes it felt like she’d pulled the short straw in everything.
‘She said something about seeing horses. Or drawing them?’
No sign of any art equipment where normally it would be strewn across the floor – Hope liked to lie on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, colouring in pictures she’d created. She could spend hours like that.
The first chilly fingers of fear sneaked into Jenny’s stomach. She took an instinctive breath in, feeling her chest rise, closing her eyes for a moment, remembering the words of the grief counsellor she’d seen for so long after Sarah’s death. Not everything is a calamity, she reminded herself.
‘Hope?’
Her voice sounded breathy and high-pitched. She strained her ears, listening for the rustling that would indicate a small child hidden somewhere.
‘She’s here.’
Thank God.
At the bottom of the stairs she paused again for a moment, watching as Lou caught Hope by the waist and pulled her in for a cuddle, taking her by surprise. ‘You smell of fresh air,’ he said. ‘Have you been in the garden?’
‘Darling . . .’ Jenny bent over to pick up the wellington boots – white stars on a blue shiny background – left strewn across the flagstones of the hallway. She placed them on top of the stack of cardboard boxes and looked at Hope. ‘Can you tell me or Grandpa if you’re going to play in the garden? Just so we don’t worry?’
‘I wasn’t in the garden,’ Hope said, standing on one leg, one striped sock hanging off the end of her toes, the other rolled over her jeans. She cocked her head to one side, thoughtfully, her dark eyes dreamy, long hair hanging in curtains on either side of a face smudged with mud. ‘I was looking at the horses. I’m going to go and draw them now. Did you know there’s a desk in my room? And I can see the horses from the window if I stand on tiptoe . . .’
Finding Hope at Hillside Farm Page 2