New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘Looks intriguing. Is this your big decision?’

  I nod, sipping my gin and tonic.

  Benni retrieves the single sheet of paper from the envelope. I know each handwritten word off by heart.

  Dear Mr Saxon,

  I wish to resign from my position as bank clerk at National Westminster Bank PLC. After a full-time career spanning more than two and a half decades, I have decided to explore other avenues of employment. This is a personal decision made for the benefit of myself and my family, and so I am hereby giving four weeks’ notice, as required by my employment contract.

  Kindest regards,

  Ms Ruth Elton

  Benni’s face is a picture. I knew it would be.

  She folds the letter and slides it back inside the envelope before passing it to me. I tuck it carefully into my handbag.

  ‘Good for you, Ruth. I honestly thought you would dream the dream while you were down here but return to your usual routine once you were home,’ she says, blushing with honesty.

  ‘Me too. But today I walked around a beautiful apartment overlooking the harbour, and the young woman explained to me how many viewings she does a week, yet people rarely take the plunge. It struck me as being so sad. We have one chance in this world and yet we’re all too frightened to chase what we truly want.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I thought, bugger it. I’m fifty-three, my mother’s ­seventy-three – realistically, how many years have we got?’

  ‘No one knows.’

  ‘Exactly. I work all week and for what? To dash home to care for my mum, who’s not even truly aware of what I’m doing for her. Doesn’t that undermine all the effort I’m putting in? We’d be better off selling up, downsizing and moving somewhere where we can both enjoy what little time we have left together. Jack will be fine; he doesn’t need us now. So I’ve written my resignation, and tonight, before we return to Rose Cottage, I’m going to post it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Ruth – are you sure?’

  ‘Yep, it’s now or never, Benni. I need to go for it.’

  After our celebratory tipple, we scurry down the steep hill and stand before the red postbox. I’m thrilled at the prospect of pastures new but uneasy feeling the comfort blanket of routine slipping from my shoulders.

  My fingers pinch the slimline envelope held aloft at the gaping mouth of the postbox.

  ‘What if your house doesn’t sell?’ asks Benni, as I gently push it forward.

  ‘It will. Houses in our postcode are snapped up in days.’

  ‘In that case, do it!’

  I push and release my grip. We hear the gentle thud as the envelope joins the other letters awaiting collection.

  ‘Bloody hell, you did it!’ squeals Benni, dancing on the spot.

  ‘Bloody hell, I did!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thursday 30 August

  Benjamina

  ‘You’re up early – did you wet the bed?’ jokes Summer as I follow her along the driveway to the stables minutes after the dawn chorus breaks.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I mutter, thinking back to last night’s drama. After Emma’s disappearing trick, two double gins and Ruth’s shock announcement, I was wide awake. If I hadn’t had the gin, I could have gone out with the fishermen for an all-night session hauling in their lines. At least I’d have been useful on the trawler rather than spending five hours tossing and turning whilst searching for the cold side of my pillow.

  Summer begins distributing the horses’ feed buckets along the rows; the yard’s practice of ‘first in feeds all’ ensures every horse is fed simultaneously to avoid drama.

  I grab equipment from the tool shed and get ready to muck out Bruce’s stable for the last time, as a final thank-you to Maddie for putting up with me. I can’t begin until he’s eaten his breakfast, so I lean against his stable door, watching Summer unlock and open each stable door before moving on to the next.

  Bruce’s head appears alongside mine and begins to nuzzle my face, his pink lips fluttering.

  This is what I’ll miss. The scent of the horses early in the morning, the sound of impatient hooves upon the stable floor, and the muted snorts as they communicate between stables. If I could bottle this moment, I would. But sadly, I can’t.

  ‘How’s Bruce’s injury?’ I call to Summer, noticing the gather of stitches across his right flank.

  ‘He’s fine. Maddie’s parents aren’t impressed with the vet’s bill, but what can they do? It looks like she’ll be washing up for a month to get back into their good books.’

  ‘And Sonya?’

  ‘The owner of the stables collared her when she returned from her ride and demanded to speak to her parents about the situation.’ Summer’s voice drops to a whisper, although I’m sure we’re the only ones here. ‘I’ve been told they’ve been asked to consider taking Gallop elsewhere, or else rename him.’

  ‘Can you do that with a horse?’

  Summer shrugs. ‘Who knows, but it isn’t our problem.’

  ‘I feel awful for letting go of Bruce’s leading rein. If I’d held it tight—’

  ‘He’d have pulled you over. Maddie’s told her parents that; they also know that you ran back to get help, nearly killing yourself in the process,’ says Summer, approaching Bruce’s stable, the last one. ‘Here, put his food bucket inside, otherwise he’ll think you’re teasing him.’

  I do as she instructs, and Bruce starts chomping enthusiastically at his breakfast.

  Ten minutes later, Maddie arrives to find that Summer has kindly manoeuvred Bruce into the empty stable opposite so that I can begin mucking out for my final time. He stands patiently, his head nosing over his temporary stable door, waiting to be led out to the paddock.

  ‘It saves me a job, so I won’t complain,’ says Maddie, dragging an empty wheelbarrow nearer.

  ‘I just wanted to say thank you for being so generous and letting me visit,’ I say, but have to stop when a lump collects in my throat. I fall silent and begin work.

  The simple action of turning over wood shavings, cleaning up piles of horse muck and being amongst the horses is usually therapeutic. The rhythmical action of forking the dirty straw helps my mind to drift, but with each thought, I can feel the bubble of excitement deep within me move like a carpenter’s spirit level. Sadly, my bubble won’t stay in the middle but constantly drifts the length of the spectrum. One minute, I’m enthralled to be here, the next moment I envisage returning to my usual routine, and my mood plummets.

  Bruce neighs noisily from the opposite stable, his head twisting back and forth, his top lip fluttering.

  ‘Can you tell how I feel, boy?’ I ask, leaning my broom against the wall and crossing to his temporary home. As I reach out to stroke his forelock, his gentle brown eyes look deep into mine, releasing a world of silent thoughts.

  ‘He’s going to miss you,’ calls Maddie, resting on her broom.

  ‘Ditto. I’m surprised how quickly I’ve become accustomed to seeing him . . . Strange how you get so attached to horses.’

  ‘It’s a pity you’re going home. I could see you joining the team if you lived here permanently. Given time, we might have convinced you to get in the saddle,’ says Maddie, fluffing up the border of Bruce’s stable.

  ‘I can’t imagine myself wearing jodhpurs or sitting on a horse, given my current size. But this time next year, if I return for another fortnight in Brixham – now that’s a feasible goal to aim for.’

  ‘You could have a go tomorrow. I’m sure Marla wouldn’t mind you riding Wispy around the paddock; I’d be happy to walk you round on a leading rein,’ offers Maddie, her excitement growing.

  ‘I can’t. Tomorrow is officially the last day of my holiday and I’ve made plans.’

  ‘What about Saturday morning before you catch your train?’

 
‘No can do either. We need to vacate the cottage by ten o’clock, so there’s no time to do anything beforehand, and I can’t drag my luggage around the streets of Brixham. No, I’m afraid today’s my last visit.’

  Maddie pulls a face, her bottom lip protruding.

  ‘But cheer up, I’ve bought you a present.’ I retrieve two small boxes from my jacket pocket. ‘It’s just a little thank-you for you and Marla. You’ve both helped me out during this holiday, and it means a lot.’

  ‘What’s Marla helped with?’ says Maddie indignantly, taking both boxes from me.

  ‘One night at the cove she sat with me while the others went skinny-dipping. I was pretty miserable and she kept me company. Plus, she saved my friend’s life with a favour at the Queen’s Arms.’

  Maddie opens one of the boxes to reveal a tiny silver horseshoe on a delicate chain.

  ‘They’re both the same given that you’re both into horses,’ I say, watching the delight on her face. ‘If you could pass Marla’s on, I’d appreciate it.’

  Amidst a series of hugs, promises to return next summer and much blinking-back of tears, I say farewell to the riding stables.

  Emma

  I wake with a start in my own bed. I’ve slept soundly all night, and now my familiar surroundings signal a new day. I fight the urge to lie back and analyse the last ten days spent in Brixham. I did enough navel-gazing on the train home yesterday.

  Today I must be proactive, take a grip of my life and make some decisions.

  I reach for my mobile.

  ‘Morning, Benni, I’m ringing to say thank you again for calling last night. Honestly, you don’t know how much that meant to me.’

  ‘You’d do the same for me,’ replies Benni. ‘Nice to see you’re up and about bright and early.’

  I glance at my bedside clock: 6.30.

  ‘I’m so sorry. Did I wake you?’

  ‘Nah, I’ve been up at the stables helping to muck out. I didn’t have you down as an early bird, though.’

  ‘I’ll have you know there were days when I’d be out of bed at five o’clock to start the breakfast shift at six.’

  ‘So how are you feeling today?’

  ‘Brighter, thanks to you and Ruth caring enough to call me last night.’

  ‘And have you heard anything from Martin?’

  ‘No. I’m not expecting to until I’ve sent a solicitor’s letter outlining my demands.’

  ‘What about Rob; have you spoken to him?’

  ‘I need to explain a few things about me and Rob, because I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. Yes, I lied about being single. But when you’ve been in a toxic relationship for as long as I was, you doubt whether you can stand on your own two feet. We’re not officially on a break, but we aren’t in a marriage either; that died years ago because of his controlling ways.’

  ‘So why did he drive all the way down here to deliver your wedding ring?’

  ‘To prove a bloody point! An ego trip to show I can’t outwit him, plus a way of embarrassing me to high heaven for lying. Which I shouldn’t have done.’

  ‘Do you still love him?’

  ‘Not any more. I did once, when I was young and stupid, but I’ve outgrown his possessiveness and his irrational jealousy. It seemed flattering when I was younger, but really it restricts your choices, confines your life to a tiny little box and ultim­ately stops you achieving your potential in life. I need to be my own person and decide where my future lies.’

  There’s a lengthy pause before I continue. ‘Benni, can you tell Ruth how truly sorry I am. I feel as if I’ve let you both down as much as I have myself. The holiday in Brixham felt like a good idea at the time: two weeks away, knowing that my life would change on my return to Rugeley. Pretending I was a solo made things easier all round. I just didn’t bargain on Rob searching through my emails while I was away. You must think I’m such a fool.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s like I told you a few days ago: when you understand the true reasons for doing what you do, suddenly your actions make sense. I can’t be angry with you. You have a valid reason for what you did.’

  ‘You’re too kind, you really are.’

  ‘Emma, one last thing before you go.’ Benni’s voice has gained a giggly edge again. ‘Remember I mentioned that Luca might be giving you a call?’

  ‘Benni, please. I’ve got enough on my plate.’

  ‘Please hear me out. He was gutted when I spoke to him. He genuinely likes you. It sounds like he was biding his time to ask you out, only to discover that Martin had got there first.’

  ‘Oh Benni, there’s so much I didn’t share with you guys. I’m mad with myself for trusting that snake. Still, at least I found out before I sold up and moved down there. What a prat!’

  ‘He conned you. He bluffed his way into your good books and then deceived you by pretending he was single. Luca said he’s renowned for having an eye for the ladies – he just took it further this time. But it’s his loss, Emma. The two of you could have had a great working relationship; how is his business going to survive now?’

  ‘On my ten thousand pounds, that’s how!’

  Benjamina

  My mobile rings for the second time today, interrupting my breakfast with Ruth in her pink quilted dressing gown. I jump up from the table to answer, delighted that someone’s calling me but saddened by the reminder that apart from Emma’s earlier call, my phone hasn’t rung for ten days. Maybe Mum and Dan have missed me after all. I’ll apologise for not calling back after their drama to ask if everything was OK.

  I reach the sideboard, disconnect my charging lead and stare at the illuminated number. I recognise it instantly. It’s not home.

  I don’t want to answer.

  ‘Oh no,’ I groan, seeking solace in Ruth, but her expression is bewildered, as she stares from the dining table.

  The phone continues to ring. A montage of flashbacks plays inside my head: Ziggy, Bruce, ice cream, the harbour, climbing steep hills, the cove, new trainers and bench pit stops for breathers.

  ‘Are you going to answer it?’ asks Ruth, watching me intently.

  ‘If I answer this call, it will officially end my holiday.’

  ‘So ignore it,’ she says, biting into her buttered toast.

  I can’t ignore it.

  ‘Benni?’

  I hit accept.

  The ringing ceases and I hear a familiar voice.

  ‘Hello,’ I reply, lowering my head and stepping into the kitchen, away from Ruth’s watchful gaze.

  ‘Hi, Benni, Tina here. We were wondering if you’re looking for work next week . . . some shifts at Vine Yard’s? Any chance that you’re interested?’ Her voice is crystal clear; no chance of me not hearing her request.

  My heart sinks. I want to say ‘no thanks, I’m sorted’, but I can’t . . . I daren’t. I know that come Saturday I’ll be home in Burntwood, slotting back into the usual routine of my life. Searching the job adverts for permanent work. Work that I actually want to do, rather than just any old low-paid position purely to avoid an empty bank account at the end of the month.

  The words stick in my throat, and my head and my heart begin a tug of war over who will win. I don’t need telling; I know the answer.

  ‘Benni . . . hello, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’ Gone is my bubbly, excited tone as I revert to the real me: level-headed, independent and self-reliant to the core. ‘How many shifts?’

  ‘They’ve asked for three, but you know how it is: they always underestimate how much manpower they need on the production line. They say Monday to Wednesday but then they always bump you up to a full week with the offer of weekend work if you want it. You know how they are, Benni.’

  ‘So, a promise of three shifts but it could be five or six?’

  ‘Yep. I mean, there’s no pressure
from us; if it isn’t what you’re looking for then I’ll call the next person. But I’ve always said once you get your foot in the door with these big companies, you never know what they might offer in relation to a full-time contract if you show willing.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, I’ll take it.’

  What other option have I got?

  My heart plummets like a stone thrown down a mine shaft.

  ‘Lovely, so that’s Monday and Tuesday, seven o’clock start on both days—’

  ‘I thought you said three shifts?’

  ‘Did I? Sorry, no, just the two, but you know what they’re like, Benni, always changing their minds.’

  Bloody typical. Tina’s right: everyone seems to change their mind, with little regard for others.

  Ruth

  It takes considerable effort to carry my painting equipment down to the tiny cove, following Benni’s directions, but I manage it. And she’s right: it is the perfect place to spend a morning painting once you’ve navigated the steep woodland pathway, the bark chippings and finally the pebbled shale.

  I perch myself on the edge of a flattish rock, with a folded blanket for added comfort, and survey the scene. My pencils and watercolours are spread out beside me, and a jam jar balances precariously in a rocky crevice.

  The cove is idyllic in the sunshine, with a rugged rock face towering behind me and a beautiful expanse of water stretching before me, beyond which the harbour defences cut across the horizon, with my lighthouse at the end.

  Swimmers of all ages cluster in small groups beside the lichened rocks, their clothing and towels make a colourful abstract draped over the grey boulders – a stark contrast between nature and man-made.

  I wonder whether to paint the lighthouse again; many artists have delivered a recurring theme or specific scene from several different perspectives. Dare I contemplate capturing it at vari­ous times of the day and from numerous angles? I can envisage the composition of each as I stare at my blank painting board. Is such a project too restrictive in terms of creativity? Or is it a canny sales plan in terms of customer appeal? Calculated or inspirational, which would I like to be?