‘Charlotte always had the good-girl thing covered. I suppose I thought I didn’t have to worry about it. And I guess it was easier to let me get on with things when she was around because at least one of us would turn out right.’
‘You were a good girl too and we’ve always been very proud of you – even if you might not think so.’
‘Just more proud of her.’
‘That’s nonsense and you know it. Honestly, we don’t compare you, and if you feel we do then I’m sorry – it’s not intentional.’
‘Because you understand that I can’t ever be like Charlotte was.’
‘Of course I do.’
Rhonda’s tone was emphatic, but Hattie recognised the emotion in her mother’s voice just the same. She looked across. Rhonda stared straight ahead, eyes on the road, but they were glazed with unshed tears. It still hurt, after all these years. Hattie knew that because she felt it too. With Charlotte gone there would always be a corner missing of their solid square, a weak point that could collapse them at the slightest pressure. Her mum and dad must have woken every morning marking another day of loss, and they would continue to do so no matter how many years passed. Charlotte would have been thirty-one now. Hattie often wondered what sort of woman she would have been. She’d just turned eighteen when she died and they’d seen glimpses of it then, before the meningitis that took her so swiftly even her father wouldn’t have had time to diagnose it.
But her father hadn’t been given the chance to save Charlotte because she’d been away on a sixth-form residential trip to celebrate the end of exams. She’d been in a remote part of rural Croatia in a hostel when she’d refused to get up for breakfast with the others because she felt so ill. Nobody could have foreseen how it would unfold and the Roses didn’t hold anyone responsible, but it must have been a constant source of torment that perhaps, if Charlotte had been at home, Nigel would have recognised the signs quickly enough to save her. As it was, the teachers had sent her back to bed and taken the rest of the class out white-water rafting. By the time they’d returned that evening, Charlotte was dead. She’d died completely alone in a strange bed in a foreign land, and that was the thing that had broken her parents for a very long time. They felt somehow that they’d failed in their duty as parents, that they’d failed to protect her, that they’d failed to keep her safe.
Perhaps that was why, since then, they’d craved such control over Hattie’s life choices, because they wanted to be able to protect her too. But Hattie could see what their grief had blinded them to – that they would never be able to protect her from everything, no matter what they did, and their urge to keep her safe only created other problems. She’d felt controlled, hemmed in, desperate to break free from the confines of her home and parental influence since her teenage years. At first she hadn’t dared to go too far – she’d gone to Torquay, only around eighty miles away, to work in a bar at eighteen – though it was perhaps the job guaranteed to disappoint her dad more than any other, so what she’d lacked in geographical daring she’d more than made up for in occupational bravado.
There had been other jobs in Torquay after that one – children’s party assistant, fast-food cook, deckchair attendant – and then she’d met a French artist called Bertrand who’d crossed the Channel on a whim to travel the West Country – the ultimate bohemian ideal. He’d taken a deckchair on the beach and refused to pay for it when Hattie had gone to get the fee, offering philosophical arguments against payment that tied her brain up in knots, but his overwhelming charm and wit had been such that she’d ended up putting the money in herself and agreeing to model for him that evening. She ought to have known then that he was going to be trouble and that she ought to have left well alone. It was funny what clarity hindsight gave to a situation.
He was almost twice her age and her parents hated the idea of him (though Hattie had been careful never to let their paths cross) and so, naturally, young and rebellious Hattie thought he was the most fascinating man she’d ever met. He was wild, impulsive and unpredictable with no regard for rules or norms, and he showed Hattie a life that was a world away from the rigid order and respectability of her parents’ home. It was no great love affair, and Hattie had never pretended to believe that it was, but she’d been fond of him and perhaps fancied she loved him a little. His charisma was such that when he suggested she return to his home in Paris with him and move into his flat, she readily agreed. It was fun for a month or so, but then, inevitably, the ex-wife – Catherine – crawled out of the woodwork. It was obvious to her now that a little thing like a marriage wouldn’t have got in Bertrand’s way if he fancied someone else. Catherine was almost as crazy as he was, and she made life nigh impossible for Hattie.
It was also shortly after Hattie’s arrival in Paris that Bertrand introduced her to Alphonse and that had turned out to be a more fortuitous meeting in the end. Bertrand announced one summer’s evening that he was going back to Catherine and they were moving to Corsica to paint landscapes, and he’d left the next day with barely a nod to the English girl he’d abandoned. The flat had been repossessed and Hattie had been forced to think on her feet to find a new home that she could afford. Strangely, she hadn’t been scared because it had felt like the greatest adventure of her life.
Alphonse had helped her. He was temperamental but kind, and he needed a cheap assistant for his fashion house. Hattie was eager to learn all he had to teach about a world that seemed glamorous and mysterious. She soon found that it wasn’t as glamorous as it might seem from the outside and that Alphonse was hardly a celebrated name in the Paris fashion circles, but it was fun. At least at first.
When Alphonse’s partner, Raul, left him broken-hearted after their acrimonious break-up, he became more morose, more demanding and temperamental. He relied more upon Hattie to take care of the minutiae of his everyday tasks but also more impatient too. Until the final event that had brought her back to Gillypuddle and led her to where she was now. Which was where, exactly? Even Hattie couldn’t answer that right now.
‘I haven’t heard many favourable reports of this woman, Jo,’ Rhonda said.
Hattie turned to her with a small smile. ‘Neither have I, to be honest.’
‘Are you sure this is wise then?’
‘Maybe not. Since when did I ever do wise?’
‘That’s true.’
‘But the one thing that’s good about it is, even if things don’t work out, I’m not so far away from home this time… if you’d have me back, of course…’
‘You know we would. You have a home with us for as long as you need it and for as long as we’re able to provide one.’
‘Thanks, Mum – I can’t tell you how good that is to hear. It makes me feel safe that I can try things. I know you don’t really approve of this, but I really want to try it. I don’t know why, but I just have such a good feeling about Sweet Briar Donkey Sanctuary.’
‘And why would that be? From what I’ve heard, Jo Flint really is the most misanthropic woman in England and you’re… well, you’re more or less the exact opposite of that.’
‘Exactly. Maybe she’s just crying out for someone to take the time to try and understand her. Maybe she’s the way she is because she’s reacting to the instant opinions people form of her. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy – you know? Maybe she just needs someone to see a bit deeper, someone who doesn’t care about all those opinions, someone who might see the real her.’
Rhonda raised her eyebrows as she navigated a sharp bend in the road. ‘And you think that person is you?’
‘I know what you’re thinking and maybe you’re right. But why not? If I could put up with Alphonse’s tantrums, then I can probably handle flak from anyone.’
‘I hate to throw cold water on this but you didn’t exactly part from Alphonse on the best of terms.’
‘Oh, that’s all water under the bridge now. I expect if I met him today we’d be just fine again.’
‘If you thought that were true, why d
idn’t you go back to Paris? I thought you loved living there.’
‘I did, but something changed. Paris isn’t what I want anymore.’
‘And living at Sweet Briar is?’
‘Mum – you said—’
‘I know, I’d support you and I wouldn’t interfere. I’m just saying.’
‘I think this could be really good, Mum, a win-win. I get to do something worthwhile and interesting, Jo gets the chance to open up to someone and the donkeys get a new person to care about them. How can there be anything wrong with any of that?’
‘Hmmm,’ was all that Rhonda said. Hattie chose to ignore the warning, because she was going to make a real go of this, no matter what anybody else might think.
Chapter Nine
Jo hadn’t come out to greet Hattie on her arrival, though she must have been able to hear the car arrive and she had been expecting her. Instead, after waiting in the courtyard for a few minutes, Rhonda had reluctantly left Hattie, at her insistence, standing on the old cobbles of the house’s yard with her belongings and a reminder to call right away if things went wrong – and by if, Hattie knew Rhonda meant when. Hattie had watched the car leave and then gone to search for Jo.
As she searched, she was given the opportunity to look more closely at her new home – from the outside at least. She could see that there had been some improvements made from the photos she’d seen on the estate-agent listing, though she wasn’t filled with hope that she was in for a five-star stay. She was optimistic, however. Just because the rendering still needed a lick of paint and the old wooden window frames were a bit gappy, that didn’t mean the inside would be as run-down. Perhaps Jo had concentrated on making the inside of her home comfortable before she tackled the arguably more cosmetic aspects of the house’s repairs. And it didn’t need to be trendy or even modern to be homely and snug.
Hattie eventually found her new boss in one of the outbuildings, soldering an electrical circuit board for some appliance or other. The draughty old building looked as if it had once been a barn, but was now filled with tools and bits of old vehicles and the workbench that Jo was leaning over.
‘Oh.’ Jo looked up from her soldering on hearing Hattie clear her throat. ‘You’re here then.’
‘Yes.’ Hattie stood and waited for something else, but Jo put her head down again and continued to work. ‘Um… where shall I put my stuff?’
‘Your room’s at the front,’ Jo said without looking up. ‘I need the bigger one at the back.’
‘That’s OK – I don’t need much room.’
Jo simply grunted.
‘So… can I go in and unpack?’ Hattie asked.
‘Nobody’s stopping you.’
‘Are you going to let me in?’
‘Door’s never locked – no point up here.’
Though she disagreed in principle, Hattie could at least see Jo’s point on that much. Sweet Briar Farm was well off the beaten track and, unless someone was expressly coming to visit the house, it was very unlikely that they’d have any other reason to come here. Maybe there’d be the odd intrepid climber who’d make the effort to the top for the spectacular views, but most people headed to the beaches and rock pools at the foot of the cliffs. And as Jo hadn’t opened her sanctuary to visitors, Hattie didn’t imagine she had anything to worry about as far as locking her house was concerned. If the outside of the house was anything to go by, there probably wasn’t much worth stealing even if someone did come all the way up the cliffs to break in. It felt safe nonetheless. Perhaps that was why Jo had decided it was the perfect place for her sanctuary – nice and peaceful for her more skittish residents. It was beautiful too – the air was brisk and clean and the ocean was like a wave-powered metronome, beating out the rhythm of a briny lullaby. If you’d endured a life of neglect, abuse or overwork, this was the sort of place that might just heal your soul – although on first impression it didn’t seem to have done much for Jo Flint’s.
Hattie took herself to the front of the house. Opening the door, she dragged her suitcases inside and took a moment to get the measure of her new home. There was no grand entrance hall here like the one at her parents’ house. The front door opened onto grey flagstones, warped and worn with age, with panelled doors in need of a paint opening onto various rooms and dusty stairs straight ahead, muffled by a worn patterned carpet. There were no prints or photos, no wallpaper panels or soft muted shades of elegant sage or peach. It felt as if Hattie had stepped into a sepia print taken a hundred years before. The ceilings were low and beamed, and the small windows meant there wasn’t much natural light in the entrance space once the heavy front door was closed.
The stairs creaked and protested as Hattie climbed them with her things. It took three trips to get everything up there by herself. She’d opened and closed doors along the upstairs landing to find one room after another filled with clutter. One of them had a made-up bed which looked as if it had recently been slept in. Hattie assumed this was Jo’s as it was at the back of the house overlooking the courtyard. The bathroom had no shower, a cracked porcelain bath and a toilet that still flushed with a chain. Then Hattie came to the bedroom at the front of the house, the one she assumed Jo had meant was for her. There was a single bed in here but it wasn’t made up, though there was a pile of clean sheets and blankets sitting on the bare mattress. It also housed a teak wardrobe, a wooden chest and a faded armchair sitting in the corner, and that was it. Thin curtains dressed the window, the pattern almost faded away by decades of sunlight. It smelt of damp and general lack of use. Hattie crossed to the window to open it and let some air in, and that was when she saw properly the view that had been gifted to her.
Jo had said she needed the bigger room but Hattie would have gladly swapped space for this any day. Beyond the rolling fields that stretched away to the cliff’s edge lay a shimmering ribbon of blue, embraced by the walls of the cove on either side where briars and shocks of yellow broom grew. Gulls circled overhead, their cries echoing across the bay, darts of black against a patchwork sky. Hattie stared, mesmerised by the sight. Her parents’ house had lovely views of the fields and meadows around Gillypuddle, but they couldn’t compare to the drama of this. For however long she chose to stay at Sweet Briar Farm, this was hers, and suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter how damp and run-down the house was or how taciturn Jo might be, or how hard the work was.
Besides, she thought as she tore herself reluctantly from the window and set about making up the bed, if this was her room then surely Jo wouldn’t mind her making it a little more comfortable and personal – perhaps a lick of paint and some new furniture. When she could catch Jo in the right mood (and she might need time to learn what that looked like) she’d ask.
Before she knew it, an hour had passed. Hattie had spent it staring thoughtfully at her new living quarters, wondering what she could scavenge from her parents’ house to make it more homely and what colour paint might best liven up the dull walls. She hardly noticed the passing of time until a commotion downstairs snapped her out of her reverie. She went down to find Jo in the kitchen running her hand under the tap and muttering curses under her breath.
‘You’re there,’ she said, looking up as Hattie came in. ‘I thought you’d decided to go home.’
‘What do you mean? Why would I do that?’
‘How should I know? You were quiet, though. Pass me that towel, would you? Bloody blowtorch.’
Hattie rushed to retrieve a towel slung over the back of a chair. It hardly looked sanitary enough to be allowed anywhere near a wound, but she had the feeling that Jo wasn’t the sort of woman who would let that worry her.
‘What happened?’ she asked as she handed it over.
‘Grabbed the wrong end. Could have been worse – at least it had been lying idle for a couple of minutes so it hasn’t seared my skin off. I’ll live.’
‘What were you doing with a blowtorch?’
‘Bodywork on the tractor’s had it.’ Jo dabbed the towel gingerly
over her wet hand. ‘I’ve done my best, but I doubt it’s ready for anything but the scrapyard.’
‘Do you use it a lot?’
‘I can probably do without if push comes to shove but it helps make life easier.’
Hattie nodded at Jo’s hand. ‘Do you need to go to hospital with that?’
‘Hospital? No point for this – they wouldn’t do much with it anyway.’
‘My dad could take a look at it for you.’
Jo was examining her hand but she looked up at the offer. Hattie was sure she’d almost smiled, but she’d never swear it in a court of law.
‘I’ll do for now,’ Jo said.
‘He wouldn’t mind just giving you something for the pain,’ Hattie said. ‘He’d clean it properly too.’
‘It’s clean just as it is.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean it wasn’t clean clean. I mean, like, doctor clean… you know?’
Jo just stared at her and Hattie couldn’t really say whether the offence she’d inadvertently caused had dissipated or not. She gave an uncertain smile in reply. She didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Jo before they’d even begun to work together. It seemed that Hattie was going to have to tread carefully for a while.
‘You eat stew?’ Jo asked, tossing the towel onto the kitchen table and going to the fridge. She pulled out an enamel plate. Sitting on it was a hunk of what Hattie assumed was beef, richly red and marbled with creamy veins. ‘Not one of those vegans, are you?’
‘No – I like stew,’ Hattie said cautiously. At least she thought she liked stew. Her parents weren’t stew sort of people so they rarely ate such farmhouse fare. Hattie couldn’t actually remember the last time she’d eaten stew, though she’d had beef bourguignon and stroganoff plenty of times in her favourite Parisian bistro. It was still beef and vegetables just the same.
Jo slammed the meat down onto the chopping board and set about hacking it to pieces with a large cleaver. Clearly her love of animals didn’t stretch to ones she wanted to eat. Hattie made a brief but very important mental note to make sure she didn’t annoy Jo because she looked pretty handy with a blade.
Hattie's Home for Broken Hearts: A heartwarming laugh out loud romantic comedy Page 7