With her father gone and her marriage in ruins, there had been nowhere else to run but Bron’s farm, and she’d been there ever since. Ruby, her dressage horse, had survived the crash but was too terrified of travelling to ever go in a box again. With her riding career curtailed due to her injuries, and feeling somehow that she had to punish herself for what had happened, Ella had given Ruby to Mel, the owner of the stables where she was kept. It was another layer of pain on top of everything that had happened. It felt like a punishment, and somehow she felt as if she deserved that.
After the crash she’d even had a couple of the national papers on her doorstep – the promising young rider, her career ruined. When she lashed out at Mac it caught the interest of the sort of paper that loved a nice middle-England human interest story. There were temporary lights at the junction which had failed, they’d discovered later – the driver of the other car had explained at the inquest that they’d been green, and so had the lights on the other side. Her husband or her father – it didn’t matter who had been driving, the accident would have happened regardless. Of course, none of that mattered now, years later. She’d put it to one side, allowed it to become part of the fabric that made up her life. Her darling dad was gone, her marriage over. Her life at the stables was enough. She settled back down against the pillows. Talking to a journalist about what she did now wasn’t going to drag everything back up – not in the real world. It was just a case of making her brain understand that.
Chapter Eleven
Jenny
Jenny woke to hear the rain pelting against the window. The wind sounded like it was going to take the roof off the cottage. Lou snored on, oblivious. She pushed the duvet off and found her slippers, heading downstairs to go to the loo. Three thirty in the morning. It was pitch black outside, and the storm had come out of nowhere. She crept quietly across the hall and opened the door, peering in on Hope. She was sprawled across the bed sideways, the covers hanging off. Wind whistled an eerie tune through the window as Jenny tucked her in, pushing a strand of hair back from her face. When she was sleeping she looked just like her mother. Hope stirred, muttering, and Jenny withdrew before she woke up. At this time of the morning Hope could be up for the day if she was roused, and she slept lightly, like a cat.
Jenny tiptoed downstairs, trying to remember which of the ancient wooden steps it was that – creak.
She rolled her eyes. Too late. Pausing, she held the banister and her breath, hoping that if the noise of the storm didn’t wake the rest of the house, one creaky step wouldn’t do it either. Silence.
The kitchen was warm and welcoming. She set the kettle to boil on the Aga before heading to the freezing cold of the bathroom. It had two outside walls, and the radiator did nothing to warm it up. Jenny thought for a moment about the luxury of their recently done-up bathroom back home.
You’re here to give everyone a change of scenery, she reminded herself, wincing slightly as the icy cold water hit her wrists. She towelled her hands dry.
In the kitchen, she pottered around in the dim glow of the under-cupboard lights. There was something about waking up at this time of night that made it impossible to get back to sleep, experience had shown her. A cuppa and a chapter of her book might help settle her mind.
Harry had left a new pony book sitting on the table when he’d left last night. Hope had pushed it aside, cross that he was leaving for work again, and it sat upside down, the spine cracking – a book lover’s horror. She righted it and smoothed the front cover, placing it at Hope’s favourite seat. They’d only been there a few days and she’d surprised them by settling in remarkably well – a little too well, given that she’d twice escaped to the field full of horses up the hill. They’d put a bicycle lock on the gate that led up to the fields, and since then she’d stayed put – although Jenny and Lou were still watching her like hawks. It was exhausting.
Jenny looked down at the cover of the book. Horses of the World. Hope loved to read non-fiction, learning every fact about subjects that fascinated her – fossils and horses had been favourites for a long time now. She’d probably pick it up in the morning, once she was over her unhappiness at Harry’s departure. He’d left before the storm had picked up, heading down south for a meeting – another of the countless meetings he seemed to have. Her mouth twitched in a moment of irritation. For a long time after Sarah’s death, it had seemed that Harry’s way of coping was to throw himself into work. That had been fine, because it slotted in perfectly with Jenny’s own coping mechanism. Keeping busy, organizing everyone, never giving herself time to think. She’d had counselling and been told that she should find a way to give herself some me-time, but whenever she had time to reflect it just brought back the memories of what she’d lost, and what she’d dreamed of. So it was easier to just keep on going, running the house, trying to keep Hope settled and bring her up as well as they could. Never mind the plans she’d made for their eventual retirement.
‘You have to find a space for yourself,’ her friend Margaret had said one morning, as they sat at the park watching Hope spinning round and round on one of the rides.
‘My space is looking after Hope,’ she’d replied, slightly irritated. What else was she supposed to do?
‘Harry’s her father.’ Margaret cocked her head to one side and looked at her. They’d had variations on this conversation several times. Lou – working long hours at the police headquarters – had allowed Jenny to take the reins, and Harry seemed happy to step back and let her take over the role of parent. Hope stopped spinning for a moment and stood up, clearly dizzy. She held onto the side of the railing for a moment and then made her way towards the swings. Jenny stood up to help her on and give her a push.
‘He’s her stepfather.’ She lowered her voice, lifting Hope up under the arms and popping her safely onto the swing. Hope held the metal chains and rocked back and forth, waiting to be pushed. Jenny put a hand to her back and she swung gently into the air.
Margaret’s voice was brisk, but kind. ‘He’s her father, Jen. He adopted her – in the eyes of the law, he’s her next of kin. Her biological father doesn’t even factor into the equation.’ She pursed her lips and looked directly at Jenny. ‘He’s never going to be able to do his job while you’re in the way. You need to step back.’
‘I’m trying,’ Jenny had replied. They’d stood for a while then, not talking, Jenny pushing and Margaret on the other side, making faces that made Hope giggle.
That was a year after her daughter’s death, and four-year-old Hope’s difficult behaviour was still being put down to grief. Jenny wondered, sometimes, if it was possible for a child to be loved too much, by too many people. She was the only piece of Sarah they had left, after all.
The kettle lid rattled gently, interrupting her thoughts. She leapt up, pulling it off the hotplate before it started to whistle, and busied herself making tea. She picked up her book and settled down on the chair closest to the comforting warmth of the stove. It was surprising just how loud it could be, living in the middle of nowhere. The rain was battering against the kitchen window, the branches of the trees outside creaking eerily in the wind. Jenny shivered, and felt glad that she wasn’t alone.
The next time she looked at the clock, three quarters of an hour had passed. She’d been so engrossed in her book – a diary of a woman who’d travelled around South America – that she’d completely forgotten the idea was that she should soothe herself back to sleep. The storm was still crashing outside but, lost in the tale of a trek to Macchu Picchu, she’d been oblivious. She sighed, and closed the book. The wind was whistling through the gaps under the old wooden door. She kicked the draught excluder into place and checked the lock, out of habit. Alan, the man in the little post office shop that sold a bit of everything, had told her that nobody bothered much with locking up around here, but she wasn’t quite ready for that sort of relaxed attitude yet. She left her mug in the sink and switched off the light. Perhaps she’d creep upstairs for a bit more
sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Ella
‘You are not cancelling the flight. Don’t be so bloody ridiculous.’
Ella lifted the bag into the boot of the Land Rover and shoved it, hard. She pushed the door shut with a clunk and turned, hands on hips, to face Bron. The wind, which had slammed the feed room door so hard against the stone wall that it creaked away from its hinges and crashed to the ground, had all but disappeared now. All that was left was a stable yard that looked as though a giant had picked it up and turned it upside down. Empty feed bags gathered in corners, leaves turned in whirling, eddying circles. The horses looked out over their doors in mild surprise, ears pricked. But they were more interested in the pile of bags Ella was guarding. ‘It’s minor storm damage,’ she said, firmly.
‘The place looks like it’s been turned upside down, Ella.’ Bron gestured to the stable yard, scattered with tiles that had been blown off the roof of the cottage.
She’d managed to hustle Bron away from the worst of it, shooing her back inside, telling her that she shouldn’t be trailing around in travel clothes getting muddy.
‘It’s nothing I can’t handle.’
‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’ Bron twisted the end of her long plait.
‘Completely.’ Ella gave a nod. ‘Now give me a hand with this case, and we’ll get going.’
The narrow road down to the village was strewn with detritus from the storm. Luckily, there weren’t any trees down, but the Land Rover crunched over a few lost branches before they turned onto the road that led out of Llanidaeron and towards the airport. They sat in silence. Bron gazed out of the window, and Ella didn’t like to disturb her reverie. It was a long time since she’d left the village for anything more than a brief holiday, and – Ella took a deep breath, feeling a wave of sadness threatening to overtake her – Bron was going to be gone for ages. She gripped the steering wheel and headed for the motorway.
‘Now I don’t want any of that nonsense.’ Bron reached across with a finger and wiped a tear that had sneaked out and was travelling down Ella’s cheek. Her voice was gruff. ‘I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘I know.’ Ella swallowed and squared her shoulders. ‘I’ve got so much to do, I probably won’t even notice you’re gone.’
‘Watch it, young lady.’
‘Not so much of the young.’ Ella looked up at one of the huge illuminated displays, where a glowing woman with perfect teeth beamed down, her skin flawless. She’d rushed around getting the yard into some sort of order before they left, and as a result looked distinctly rural, even by her standards. ‘Maybe I should buy some of that posh face cream.’
‘I’ll bring you back some from duty free. Deal?’ Bron, who hated fuss, shouldered her bag. ‘Now you’d better get back, or you’ll end up paying through the nose for parking. You’ve only got fifteen minutes.’
‘I was going to—’ Ella began, but her aunt raised a finger.
‘No point putting off the inevitable. Now come here.’ She pulled Ella into a tight hug, squeezing her hard. ‘Your dad would be proud of you, you know.’
Ella balled her hands, pushing her fingernails into her palms. Bron wasn’t one for sentimentality, but there was something about getting on a plane and travelling to the other side of the world that made people say things they normally kept inside.
‘Love you,’ Ella said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
‘You too. Now, shoo. You’re cramping my style.’ Bron cackled with laughter and turned for the check-in desks. She had a flight to Amsterdam first, before the long journey to Sydney began.
Ella watched as she walked away. Half of her wanted to run after Bron, but the other half felt a mixture of fear and excitement she remembered from her competitive riding years. Whatever happened, she was on her own now. It was time to make things happen. And first of all, she had to work out how the hell she was going to find four thousand pounds, by yesterday.
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
The path by the river was carpeted with leaves in every shade of gold and copper. If this was November, she liked it so far. But, puffing alongside Lissa, Ella was cursing herself for agreeing to keep her company on a training run.
‘Bumped into Nick at the Co-op this morning,’ Lissa panted, her words appearing as clouds of frozen breath in the air. ‘He was asking after you. Checking you’d got home after the party the other night, he said.’
She turned, looking over her shoulder briefly at Ella, who rolled her eyes, breathless, unable to talk. She pulled air into her lungs, feeling them aching. She wasn’t used to running and despite the long days of physical work that came with the horses, she was struggling to keep up. Lissa – who normally spent her time parked on the sofa with a pile of marking and a bottle of white – had been training for a few weeks now, and she’d picked up fitness surprisingly quickly.
Ella, who’d never seen her friend running for anything more than the train into Shrewsbury, had burst out laughing when she’d found out.
‘I promise you if you keep up the training for four weeks, not only will I sponsor you twenty quid, but I’ll come on a run with you.’
Lissa’s eyes had sparkled with amusement. ‘Deal.’
And so now, here they were.
‘Hang on,’ Ella said, stopping on the path, bending double, catching her breath.
‘Ha!’ said Lissa, triumphantly. ‘You said I’d never stick to this.’ She danced from one foot to the other, cheeks bright pink with the cold, dark curls tied back in a ponytail which bobbed back and forth as she moved.
Ella straightened up and took a long breath in. The air smelled crisp and fresh. The bright chestnut leaves of the beech hedge that lined the river path were tipped with frost, each one outlined carefully as if someone had dipped them in icing sugar.
‘I had no idea you were so bloody determined.’
‘I am when there’s a bottle of gin at stake. Helen the SENCO put two on the table – one for the fastest woman and another for the fastest man. I’m not bloody surrendering that to anyone.’
‘Aha.’ It all made sense now.
‘Come on, slowcoach, the dogs are miles ahead.’ Lissa shot off again, leaving Ella trailing behind.
‘Can we walk back?’
They’d done three miles, and Ella’s legs were like jelly.
‘Go on then,’ teased Lissa. ‘You owe me twenty quid.’
‘I’d pay forty not to have to do any more running. I’m knackered.’ Ella whistled to the dogs, who had sneaked under the wooden railing and were sniffing at rabbit holes on the edge of the hill. Bob’s little white terrier face was covered in mud, giving him the appearance of an elderly gentleman with a beard. Cleo, the spaniel, danced in circles, her tail wagging so hard that the whole of her back end was swinging back and forth. Ella pulled two treats out of her pocket, throwing them one each, laughing as they caught them in mid-air.
The two friends turned back, cheeks freezing cold, chins muffled in fleece neck-warmers. Lissa was still full of energy, dancing sideways as she looked searchingly at Ella.
‘You’re OK with the whole Nick thing, then?’
‘Yep.’
‘I just thought maybe –’
‘I don’t need a man to have a happy and fulfilling life, Lissa.’
Lissa stuck her tongue out, knowing she was hearing her own words echoed back.
‘I’m not saying that.’ She fell into step beside Ella, tucking an arm through hers. ‘It’s just – you know, you don’t have to spend the rest of your life alone in penance for what happened – before.’
‘I know, but . . .’
It didn’t matter how many times she heard it. Ella knew it had been an accident that had killed her father. She knew that she’d behaved badly, lashing out at Mac when he’d done nothing wrong, allowing her own hurt and anger to take over like some kind of monster that demanded feeding – and his pain was what it needed. She’d wanted him to feel bad. It was imp
ossible to reconcile those feelings with the way things had been before – it was as if her life had been divided in half. There was before the accident, when she was one person – full of life and joy, madly in love, impetuous, fun. And then there was afterwards.
‘You deserve to be happy, Ell. And let’s face it, if Nick had been anything other than a convenient shag you’d have sorted things out with him bloody years ago.’
‘You don’t think I drove him away by being a –’
‘Don’t even go there. You didn’t drive Nick away, he got in his own car and went. And it was nothing to do with you. You’re lovely, and it’s about time you realized that.’
Lissa grinned, poking her in the ribs, and sprinted off.
They dropped the dogs off in Lissa’s kitchen, leaving them with a bowl of water and a blanket by the radiator, and headed to the Pink Elephant Cafe for a drink, still in their running clothes.
‘All right, girls?’
Connie looked up from behind the counter. She had a duster in her hand, polishing the brand new 1950s-style coffee machine that was her pride and joy. She wouldn’t let anyone else in the cafe use it, and liked to show it off to everyone who came in – even if they’d already seen it several times over. Everyone in the village knew they had to make polite noises of admiration before sitting down at one of the rickety, mismatched chairs in the little cafe.
‘Watch that, it’s delicate!’ Connie tutted. A young girl with pillar-box-red hair and a nose ring darted sideways, avoiding a smack on the wrist. She had a Pink Elephant Cafe apron tied round her waist and was holding a cloth, which she had almost used to wipe the surface of Connie’s treasured machine.
‘You go and sit down, ladies. I’ll send Charlotte over to take your order in a moment.’
Finding Hope at Hillside Farm Page 11