New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  Despite her recovery, Ruth and Benni called it a day much earlier than I’d expected, enabling me to make arrangements with Martin.

  ‘This way, though mind you don’t trip on the first stair, the treads a little uneven,’ he says, grabbing my hand and leading me across the tiled floor.

  His fingers interlock in mine, pulling me urgently towards the back section of the parlour where a door leads to the private quarters above.

  My heartbeat matches his urgency as we fly up the staircase in the darkness. I feel like a teenager on her first date with the school hunk.

  ‘Please don’t feel obliged, but if it’s suitable then it provides a solution for us both,’ explains Martin as we reach the top stair and enter a small apartment.

  Bijou is an over-exaggeration. Lilliputian is a more fitting description of the tiny space illuminated when Martin flicks on the overhead light.

  ‘Are the other rooms any bigger?’ I ask, judging that five strides in any direction will end up with my nose touching a wall. It’s much smaller than any room in my Rugeley home; in fact my bathroom is larger than this.

  I attempt to open the sash window overlooking the harbour, but fail miserably, despite heaving at it forcefully given the layers of aged paint.

  ‘I’ll get a handyman to sort it out,’ says Martin. ‘Well, what do you think?’

  He follows me as I view the other rooms, each one getting smaller in size like a set of Russian dolls.

  ‘The floorboards need sanding or carpeting, every wall needs painting and those cobwebs need professional handling given the size of them,’ I joke, trying to envisage the place without the towering piles of cardboard boxes and remnants of shop junk. Could I make it my home and wake after a restful night’s sleep amidst the idyllic sounds of the harbour?

  ‘Fair comment, but with a little elbow grease and plenty of hot water you’ll have it shipshape in no time, I’m sure.’

  ‘True. I suppose it’ll be cheaper to rent than any other property round here – which would all definitely dent my bank account.’

  ‘And remember, it’ll only be for a short time while I get myself together financially, then maybe we might find a place together.’ His coy smile draws me in, his words a soothing balm to my beating heart.

  ‘Martin, I’m not sure . . . Doesn’t this feel rushed to you? We only met a few days ago and yet . . .’ My voice trails off, unable to vocalise my thoughts.

  He nods. ‘I know things are happening fast, but surely we have to embrace what we’ve found in each other rather than judging or questioning our feelings? If it helps, I’m as nervous as you are at the pace at which this is progressing, but still . . . I’m loving it.’

  His features glow as he speaks, his words coming without hesitation. Surely, if he can be this brave, then so can I. Can’t I?

  ‘Come here,’ he says, his arms opening wide, reaching for me.

  I nestle into his strong frame, his arms wrapped about my shoulders while my eyes rove around the room, taking in every detail. I feel as though I’m living in a fairy tale; isn’t this everything I’ve wanted from a relationship since I swooned over my first Mills & Boon book?

  ‘It definitely has potential, I suppose. I could put some of my furniture into storage, downsize for a while.’

  ‘It’s certainly an option if you don’t want to sell anything.’

  ‘OK, let’s do it. I can live here while I settle into a new routine in the parlour. It’ll mean no commuting, and I’ll get to enjoy the beauty of the harbour view when I’m not working.’

  I break free from his hold and wander around, visualising my furniture filling the place. I have to be realistic; I will need to sell certain pieces as not everything will fit, but still, what’s a few bits of furniture in comparison to finding your life partner? How weird that in a matter of days I have accepted this man, even without full knowledge of his flaws, his history, his intentions . . .

  I start to choose from an imaginary paint chart: a warm, cosy colour for the lounge, a fresh, positive shade for the kitchen and a relaxing tone for my bedroom to encourage sleep and happy dreams. As I stand at the bedroom window looking out across the harbour, I can see my potential happiness in the grimy reflection.

  ‘Emma?’ Martin’s voice draws me near, like a command. I cross the room and fall into his arms, craning my neck to lift my face to his. My eyes close as our mouths passionately convey our silent feelings for each other.

  Our breathing increases, our lips merge into a melting pot of passion as our hands frantically reach for each other’s body. Eventually, my hands find his belt buckle; his slip under my T-shirt.

  It’s been a long time since I wanted a man as much as this. My inhibitions disappear, along with the remnants of my solo holiday.

  ‘Emma, are you OK?’ whispers Martin.

  ‘I’m fine, honestly . . . and you?’ I ask, unsure of protocol or sexual etiquette as we lie naked amongst discarded junk and dusty cardboard boxes.

  Martin gives a throaty chuckle that builds into a rapturous belly laugh.

  ‘We sound like strangers meeting on a train, and yet we’ve just . . . well, crossed a boundary,’ I say, slightly embarrassed that my naked flesh is on full display in the muted light from the street lamp outside the window.

  ‘I take it you’ll be moving in as soon as it suits,’ whispers Martin, as he nuzzles into my left shoulder.

  ‘I believe I will be.’

  We fall silent amid a renewed surge of passion as our flesh entwines for a second time.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday 28 August

  Ruth

  I cup my hands to the glass as I have every morning this week. It’s my daily fix of admiring my own composition. Which probably appears very narcissistic and explains why I haven’t insisted the others accompany me after the first time on my birthday.

  I find myself staring at a painting of a beach complete with early-morning dog walkers.

  It takes a second to register. I should be staring directly at my watercolour of the Marina Mania. It’s not there.

  I scour the surrounding paintings. Maybe Dean’s had a switch around? But he promised me the prime position on the wall, so where’s he moved it to!

  I feel stupid when I actually glance at the painting in prime position – as if mine would ever be there! I cringe, relieved I’m entirely alone to absorb this; my ego obviously has ideas above her station. The usual large lighthouse composition remains in situ. Granted it isn’t centre stage in the window but, still, yesterday my composition was prime position on the wall as you entered the gallery.

  I check each section of gallery wall visible through the closed shutters.

  I can’t see it.

  Benjamina

  ‘Here, Benni, take the leading rein,’ says Maddie, offering me the length of rope attached to Bruce’s bridle. ‘Hold it like I showed you, looped in your palm and not around your hand.’

  I take the length of rope, folding it as instructed before my free hand takes a tight hold nearer his mouth. It feels good to be trusted to lead him from his stable into the yard amidst brilliant sunshine.

  ‘Happy?’ asks Maddie, her eyes scanning my face and then both of my hands to ensure I am following her strict orders.

  ‘Yep, this feels lovely . . . but why aren’t you riding him?’

  ‘Today we’re just going for a walk like you would with a dog, so you can lead him round the whole way if you want.’

  I do want. I’m wishing for so much right now. I wish my holiday was just starting. I wish my train ticket wasn’t booked for Saturday. I wish I’d spent my youth around horses at the local stables even if I only ever bagged a ride as a ‘thank you’ for mucking out. Right now, Maddie has no idea how much I wish for. Even a genie, a magic lamp and a tin of Brasso couldn’t possibly grant all my wishes.

&n
bsp; Under Maddie’s watchful gaze, I lead Bruce across the stable yard through the rear gates leading on to the bridle path that winds through a woodland area.

  ‘I can see why you would walk here rather than ride,’ I say, looking around at the low-hanging branches and the luscious foliage growing either side of the footpath.

  ‘Exactly. You need to plan what you’re doing with your horse, otherwise you end up running into trouble without realising it. Some riders walk a pathway first then return for their horse, because it can change from one day to the next.’

  ‘I imagine it can. I’ve never thought of walking a horse like this, but I suppose it’s still exercise for their muscles.’

  ‘And it stimulates their brain. Can you imagine being locked inside a stable all day, staring at blank walls?’

  ‘They’re exactly like humans,’ I say. ‘I know how mind-numbing it is to stare at a conveyor belt filled with empty vinegar bottles. After an eight-hour shift, everything looks intriguing, even the labelling machine.’

  Maddie laughs. ‘I couldn’t do that. When I leave school, I want to work with horses.’

  ‘Here at the stables?’

  ‘Not necessarily. More like equine sports massage and remed­ial therapies. I’ll need to go to uni, so I’d best get my grades.’

  ‘And leave Bruce?’ His dark ears rotate and flicker on hearing his name.

  ‘Never. I’ll be moving him to a stable close by. I couldn’t leave him.’

  ‘Do your parents know that?’ I ask, the giggle in my voice suggesting I know the answer.

  Maddie laughs again. ‘Not yet, but they’ll cope.’

  ‘Too much information is dangerous for parents, is that your train of thought?’

  ‘Certainly is.’ Maddie suddenly stops and listens intently. ‘Can you hear that?’

  I stop too, and listen whilst stroking Bruce’s brushed mane.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ I say.

  ‘I swear I heard the pounding of hooves,’ says Maddie as we resume our walk. ‘Anyway, as I was saying—’

  From nowhere, a large grey horse suddenly appears on our left-hand side. The rider is leaning forward, her body low and flat against the horse’s lengthening neck, her hands frantically pulling at his reins.

  ‘Oh great!’ spits Maddie, as the grey horse dashes past.

  ‘Faster, Gallop! Faster!’ cries the rider, her features contorted in a scream as she shoots past us.

  I don’t need telling who the rider is.

  I feel an urgent tug on my left hand and in an instant the coil of rope is gone. I turn to see Bruce’s rear end disappearing after the galloping horse, his leading rope trailing behind him.

  ‘Bruce!’ shouts Maddie, running after him, without a word of criticism to me.

  Should I have held the leading rein tighter? Could I have grabbed the end of it as it flew from my hand? I don’t know, but I’m certain I can’t run fast enough to catch the figures disappearing into the dense woodland.

  So without my mobile to hand, I do the only helpful thing that comes to mind, and start back towards the stable yard as fast as I can to raise the alarm.

  Ruth

  ‘It’s gone!’ says Dean the second I enter the gallery, curiosity having finally got the better of me.

  ‘What?’ I drop my art equipment at my feet.

  ‘Sold!’ His face lights up as he explains. ‘It was my last sale before closing yesterday . . . I was going to phone you later today with the good news. I wouldn’t want you to pass by and wonder if I’d moved it.’

  ‘Oh no . . . of course . . . I would have wondered if I couldn’t see it,’ I say, feigning understanding while knowing exactly how I reacted this morning when I couldn’t see it. ‘Am I allowed to ask who bought it?’

  ‘A nice young couple from Glasgow – they said it reminded them of their very first holiday to Brixham during their university days. I believe she said it would be hung in their dining room back home.’

  ‘Lovely.’ I squirrel the information away. I, Ruth Elton, will have a watercolour hanging in a dining room in Glasgow. I silently thank the young couple and hope my composition survives the journey back home without a scratch. I want it to be perfect for ever. A little piece of me decorating someone else’s life.

  ‘So congratulations, that’s the first one sold,’ Dean says, drawing near and planting a decorous kiss on my cheek.

  I’m taken aback that he’s so tactile with a stranger. Never in my life have I offered a congratulatory kiss to someone I hardly know. Watercolour sold or not!

  ‘Are there any other paintings nearing completion?’ he asks, stepping back. I’m certain that my body language – rabbit frozen in headlights – speaks volumes to this warm and affectionate man. I’m grateful when he glances at the wall clock, giving me a moment to recover.

  ‘I’m just heading to the lighthouse to finish a watercolour I started the other day,’ I say. ‘I’ve chosen a different perspective from the painting displayed in the window, so fingers crossed it will sell too.’

  ‘Excellent, it doesn’t do to have artists producing the same goods,’ says Dean with a smile. ‘You must bring it in to the gallery when it’s finished. Actually, I was just closing for lunch . . . any chance you’d care to join me?’

  I hesitate and blush profusely.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I say before common sense can butt in to refuse the invite.

  ‘I’ll stash that behind the counter,’ he says, indicating my equipment bag plonked at my feet, ‘and shut up shop for an hour.’

  I feel like a spare part as Dean busies himself with security alarms and door signage. He’s definitely older than me, but from the way he strides around the gallery I can tell that he has far more energy and vigour. Part of me wishes he’d hurry up, as the waiting is enabling my mind to conjure up all sorts of reasons why this might be a bad idea.

  I was planning to paint all afternoon; the light will have changed in an hour or two.

  I’d arranged to have lunch at the cottage with Benni.

  I haven’t sat opposite a male who isn’t biologically related to me since my younger days.

  ‘All done. Are you ready?’ he asks, leading me from the gallery.

  We walk the length of the quayside and I nervously rattle off plausible painting ideas I’ve had this week. I must sound like an overexcited child listing all the scenic spots around Brixham, alongside my desire to visit the stables and Berry Head, which Benni and Emma have recommended. Dean listens carefully, providing suggestions and outlining possible pitfalls regarding my suggested composition. For once, it feels as if someone is listening to my ideas without diluting my passion.

  Eventually he indicates left and we arrive outside the chic café where Benni and I had breakfast on Sunday.

  ‘Oh, I like it here,’ I say.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. I can recommend their champagne . . . especially after a first sale!’

  Dean holds the door wide, enabling me to pass.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say.

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Benjamina

  Finally, I make it back to the stable yard. As I stumble through the gate, my breath is laboured and my heart feels as though it’s about to burst from my chest. My right knee is aching and I have a painful stabbing sensation under my ribs, but I’ve made it. I’ve never been so grateful to see a wooden gatepost.

  ‘Summer! Help!’ I holler as I see a jodhpur-clad figure striding across the stable yard. She stops, turns and comes running.

  ‘Benni, are you OK?’

  ‘Bruce legged it,’ I gasp. ‘Gallop girl was screaming . . . Maddie running . . . chasing him . . . lead rope gone . . . the woods . . .’ I’m doubled over, leaning against the gate, panting for breath.

  ‘Calm down,’ Summer says. ‘Stay here while I fetch some of
the others . . . OK?’

  I nod, speechless, and she jogs briskly in the direction of the office.

  I close my eyes and wait, my mouth agape, snatching warm summer air with each pant. My forehead is burning; a trail of sweat runs along my back. I think I’m about to die if my heart doesn’t slow any time soon. Can you have a heart attack at twenty-five? I never thought my final moments would be spent hanging on to a gatepost in Brixham.

  A clatter of boots draws near and I open my eyes to see Summer and two women heading my way.

  ‘She said the woods, Maddie gave chase but you know what he’s like – he’ll keep running until he’s done,’ says Summer, as the trio near.

  ‘Benni, did you enter the woods via the bridle path or by the road?’ asks the older woman, her hand reaching for my forehead.

  ‘Bridle path . . . we left through this gate,’ I pant. ‘Maddie’s got her mobile.’

  She beckons to the other woman. ‘You stay here and make sure Benni’s OK; call an ambulance if she’s not,’ she says, adding, ‘Summer, phone Maddie. Find out exactly where they are and if she or Bruce are injured. We’ll head out to meet them.’

  Summer pulls her mobile from her pocket and the pair leave me with my first-aider.

  ‘Do you feel faint?’ asks the woman, crouching down to peer up at me.

  I shake my head. I feel a lot of things – guilt is pretty high on the list – but faint isn’t one of them.

  Within twenty minutes, Summer calls to say they’ve located Maddie and together they’ve cornered and recaptured Bruce and are heading back towards the stables.

  In the meantime, I’ve been helped into a hard-backed chair and given a damp compress to wear about my neck, my pulse monitored constantly by the first-aider.

  ‘Is Bruce OK?’ I ask as soon as she ends the call.

  ‘He’s sustained a nasty gash along his flank that’ll need looking at by a vet – Maddie’s parents won’t be happy given the circumstances,’ she says. ‘But nothing too serious.’

  ‘And Gallop’s rider?’

  ‘Well, she’ll have some explaining to do when she returns. This isn’t the first time she’s caused an incident like this,’ she says, releasing my wrist. ‘I think you’re probably feeling a lot better now. You had me worried for a moment back there.’