“Right,” said Stan. “Make sure all your doors are locked. If anything happens, and I mean anything, inform me. And I think you should tell Mrs Martin.”
Outside, the storm raged. Giant raindrops pounded the windows and lightning flashed in the sky. Aiden walked into the kitchen where Abigail was rocking Tiffany to sleep.
“Can you believe this weather?” she asked, staring through the window.
“Abs, I need to tell you something. I didn’t want to, but it’s important.”
Abigail caught the urgency in his tone and looked up, concerned.
“What is it?”
So Aiden told her about the postcards, and his visit to Stan. He showed her the cards and saw her face blanche. He handed her the final postcard.
“The postmark means she’s on her way now,” he said.
Abigail’s hand covered her mouth in shock.
“What shall we do?”
“Stan says we should lock all the doors. She can’t take Tiffany, and we’re not going to let her into the house. If she turns up, we phone the police.”
Abigail’s face was white, but her jaw had a determined set to it. She nodded, clutching Tiffany closer to her.
“I think you should take Tiffany upstairs, and I’ll keep watch downstairs.”
As he spoke, the sky flashed white, followed by a terrific clap of thunder that shook the house.
All the lights went out.
17
Aiden grabbed the flashlight from the drawer. Rain lashed the windows.
“Quick! Grab everything you might need and take Tiffany upstairs. I’ll help you get settled then I’m going to wait down here. If that madwoman turns up, I’ll be ready, storm or no storm. Let’s hope the electricity comes back on soon.”
When Abigail and Tiffany were safely installed upstairs, Aiden took up his station by the window, watching the rain bounce as it hit the ground. It was going to be a long day and night.
The hours ticked past and there was no sign of Martha. The rain never eased and the black clouds remained knitted together, blocking out any glimpse of the night sky. At around 3:00am, Aiden could keep his eyes open no longer. He slept fitfully in the chair by the window, but even as he slept he was listening for a car or footsteps on the gravel.
The electricity stayed off until morning. The ground was soaked and puddles glimmered under the grey sky, but the rain had stopped. Aiden tensed when he saw a figure approaching. He relaxed when he saw it was the postman who dropped two bills through the letterbox. No postcards.
Abigail came downstairs. She looked exhausted.
“Do you think Martha was lying?” she asked.
“I don’t know…”
The phone rang and they both jumped.
“Stan here. Nothing to report?”
“No, nothing. I stayed on watch all night.”
“Well, perhaps it was an empty threat. I suggest you get some rest, but keep your doors locked for the moment, just in case. I’ve got my work cut out because of this storm, it’s created havoc in the village. But I’ll be here if you need me.”
Aiden and Abigail tried hard to relax, but found it difficult. They talked endlessly about the possibility of Martha turning up, their eyes forever flicking to the window, their ears tuned in to the sound of any approaching car. To Aiden’s relief, Abigail and he were united, utterly determined that Martha would never claim Tiffany.
Already worn out from being awake all night, every new noise alarmed them. They stared questioningly at each other, silently attempting to analyse the source of the sound. Their nerves jangled. When the paper boy wheeled his bike up the drive, they both nearly jumped out of their skins.
The phone rang again and Aiden picked it up.
“Hello?”
“Mr Martin? Stan Cooper here again. Have you had the Yewbridge Gazette yet?”
“Yes, it’s just been delivered, this very minute. Why?”
“Do you have it there in front of you? Look at the main story. I think you have nothing further to worry about.” Stan rang off.
Aiden picked up the paper and smoothed it out. The whole of the front page was devoted to last night’s storm.
Aiden stared at the main photo which showed the wreckage of a white car.
“Abigail! Look at this!”
“Oh my…”
Storm claims life of US tourist
Police have confirmed that the violent storms of yesterday have claimed the life of an American tourist. The driver appears to have lost control on a sharp bend between Yewbridge and Sixpenny Cross. There were no witnesses.
A police spokesman said, “The accident was reported by a motorist at 4:00pm yesterday. The car must have swerved off the road in the bad weather and hit a tree. The driver was pronounced dead on arrival at Yewbridge Hospital. Our enquiries show that the car was hired at Gatwick Airport by a Miss Martha Guttman. A passport has been found and a positive identification has been made.
Miss Guttman’s family in New York have been informed. Miss Guttman was not married and leaves no children.”
Police have asked the public to continue to be aware of dangerous driving conditions caused by the storm.
“Abs, it’s over… It’s finally over.”
Husband and wife fell into each other’s arms. They stood entwined for a long time.
The next day, the sun shone on the village of Sixpenny Cross. The pond on the village green was fuller than anybody remembered it. The ducks’ nest had been washed away, but the eggs had already hatched and the ducklings were safe and well. A tree had been struck by lightning in Sixpenny Woods, and the church had lost a few slates. Branches and debris needed to be cleared. Apart from that, there was not too much damage.
That evening, Aiden smiled into his wife’s eyes across the restaurant table in Yewbridge. They must have passed the spot where Martha had spun off the road, but they hadn’t looked for it.
“Well, this is a nice surprise,” said Abigail. “I can’t remember when we last went out to dinner together! It was good of Daisy to babysit at such short notice.”
“I thought we should celebrate. I know we didn’t wish Martha dead, but it’s wonderful to know that nobody can ever take Tiffany away from us now.”
The tiny diamonds in Abigail’s eternity ring sparkled in the candlelight as she put her hand over his.
“Yes,” she said, looking directly into his eyes, unblinking. “Especially since Tiffany is going to have a little brother or sister in a few months.”
Aiden’s eyes widened.
“Really?” he breathed.
“Yes, really.”
Stan Cooper was enjoying a quiet pint in the Dew Drop. Actually, it was his second but he felt he deserved it. The Captain and his friend sat in their usual corner, and Bella Tait occupied another table, reading the Yewbridge Gazette and stroking Scout, the pub cat.
“Terrible storm, wasn’t it?” said Angus, buffing up the beer taps and making conversation from behind the bar. “That poor American woman who crashed her car! What bad luck. I wonder where she was heading?”
“Dunno,” said Stan, shaking his head.
“And I hear that nice Martin couple are keeping that baby that was found in the woods?”
“Yes, I heard that too,” said Stan, and took a long sip of his beer.
18
So you see, my dear, Abigail’s story had a happy ending. She and Aiden went on to have lots more children. Abigail always wanted to fill that house in Sixpenny Lane with children, and over the years, that’s exactly what she did. There wasn’t one room in that house that wasn’t bursting at the seams with kids, toys and laughter.
Of course, the children soon rubbed off the house’s ‘designer shine’ and it began to look much more like a home, and less like a photo from Country Estates magazine. It began to look rather like the Drapers’ farmhouse, cosy and rather worn round the edges. And Abigail and Aiden were very comfortable with that.
Aiden worked from home most of the time, and wore j
eans with holes in them, only changing into his tailored suit when he had to go up to London on business. Money was not important to either him or Abigail. They lived for their children.
The children went to the village school across the green, which is where you will go when you’re bigger. You’ll like it there, and your teacher will take you on nature study trips across the green, and you’ll catch little creatures with your net in the pond.
Perhaps if Martha had been a nicer person, none of this would have happened. Nobody wanted her dead, of course, but she kind of brought it on herself.
Just one little thing puzzled me and Jayne Fairweather, the postmistress, about Martha Guttman’s death. You see, Jayne was the motorist who reported the accident to the police, so she was probably the first one on the scene.
She was driving back from Yewbridge to Sixpenny Cross, and she said the rain was bucketing down so hard she could scarcely see the road ahead. When she rounded the bend and caught sight of Martha’s car wrapped round a tree, she stopped straight away, and rolled down her window. She realised it was extremely serious, but as she prepared to drive away to report the incident, a movement caught her eye.
She thought she saw two figures melting into the trees.
She told me it looked like an old lady with a shawl over her head, holding the hand of a small pale-faced child.
When she looked again, they’d gone, so she probably imagined it.
It’s good to see you fast asleep with not a care in the world, little one. Next time I’m asked to watch over you, I’ll tell you another story. Sixpenny Cross is bursting with stories.
I know you love animals, so I’m going to tell you all about Bella Tait.
Yes, B is for Bella. And Bella Tait’s love of animals, big and small, scaly or fluffy, was a joy to behold.
But kind, loving, generous Bella didn’t know she had a mortal enemy.
Abigail Martin’s Carrot Cake
“Abigail, sorry to be a pest, but can you give me that carrot cake recipe again, please? I can’t find it and I’ve searched everywhere.”
Ingredients
Olive oil, to grease
2 (about 300g) carrots
1 cup (150g) self-raising flour
½ cup (75g) plain flour
1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda
½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ cup (80g) brown sugar
¾ cup (185ml) olive oil
½ cup (125ml) golden syrup
3 eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla essence
250g (8oz) spreadable cream cheese
½ cup (80g) icing sugar
½ teaspoon vanilla essence
Method
Preheat oven to 170C or 150C fan-assisted, or 340F.
Grease a 20cm (8in) round cake pan lightly with oil, and line with non-stick baking paper.
Peel and grate the carrots, and set aside.
Sift the flours, bicarbonate of soda and cinnamon into a large bowl.
Put the brown sugar, oil, golden syrup, eggs and vanilla in a separate bowl. Use a balloon whisk to mix until combined.
Pour the oil mixture into the dry ingredients. Use a wooden spoon to stir gently until just combined. Stir in the grated carrot.
Pour the mixture into the pan and bake for 1 hour. Set aside for 5 minutes, before turning out onto a wire rack to cool completely.
To make the icing
Place the cream cheese, icing sugar and vanilla in a bowl. Use a wooden spoon to mix until well combined.
Spread the icing over the cake.
B is for Bella
Sixpenny Cross 2
When two babies are born within weeks of each other in the village of Sixpenny Cross, one would expect the pair to become friends as they grow up.
But nothing could be further from the truth.
1
When I was younger, I used to amuse myself in the evenings by sewing patchwork quilts. That quilt you are sleeping under now was made for your mother. Sometimes I blink when I see you curled up in that crib because you, my dear, are the spitting image of her.
Now I have arthritis in my hands, and I can scarcely hold a needle in my crooked fingers. My poor old eyes can’t see the stitches either, so I’ll sew no more patchwork quilts. Heaven allowing, I’ll teach you, little one, when you’re older.
My own mother used to make patchwork quilts, as did her mother before her. Our quilts were washed so often that they became faded and threadbare. But we never threw them away, even when holes began to appear.
No.
Everybody knew who would be grateful for them.
Bella Tait.
Sweet Bella Tait couldn’t bear to see any animal in need and cared for so many creatures that she needed all the old towels, quilts and bedding she could lay her hands on.
Yes, B is for Bella.
I’ll tell you the rather unusual story of Bella Tait while you sleep, little one. It’ll keep my mind busy, now that I have no quilting projects on my lap.
You see, Bella Tait and Christine Dayton were born within weeks of each other. And though they were almost neighbours, they were never friends.
2
In the heart of Sixpenny Woods is a curious rock. Nobody knows how old it is, or how it got there. Some say it’s made of granite, but there are no traces of natural granite in that part of Dorset. How and why that huge rock came to be resting in the woods is a mystery.
Plenty of guesses have been hazarded. Some suggest that it is the remnant of some giant rock that struck our planet countless years ago. Some say it was transported by Druids, to serve as an altar. Others whisper that aliens were responsible for the appearance of a rock so out of character with its surroundings. Gypsies camp around the rock, believing in its magical qualities.
Whatever their opinions, most agree that the rock possesses supernatural powers, and since time immemorial, the inhabitants of Sixpenny Cross have called it the Wishing Rock.
The rock is nearly as tall as some of the trees around it. It is weathered and smooth, with little holes and crevices, inviting one to climb it. Ivy fights to take hold, its tendrils creeping over the surface.
In 1954, Bill Haley & His Comets recorded Rock Around the Clock, and Roger Bannister ran the first under four minute mile in Oxford.
That same year, a married couple were enjoying a Sunday walk through the dappled light of Sixpenny Woods.
“Hey, I’d forgotten all about the Wishing Rock!” exclaimed the young man, running up to it and pulling away the ivy to reveal the dark stone beneath. “Why don’t we climb it?”
“Don’t be silly, Don, it’s far too hot for climbing. You climb it if you want to.”
“Oh, come on! We should climb it and sit on the top, then we can both make wishes.”
“Knowing me, I’ll fall and break a leg.”
“No, you won’t, I’ll help you.”
They scrambled up and sat close together on the narrow summit, legs dangling. Don draped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. The trees were green, thick and silent around them.
“Go on, then. Make a wish,” said Don.
“You know what I’m going to wish for,” June answered, a faraway look in her eyes.
“Yes, I do, but don’t tell me or your wish won’t come true.”
June squeezed her eyes shut.
Please, Wishing Rock, no more miscarriages, no more stillbirths. Let me have a healthy baby. I don’t mind what it’s like, a boy or a girl, fat or thin, ugly or pretty… Just one healthy child.
Beside her, Don was also wishing.
Please help me to take June to Italy to see her grandmother’s village. I’d give my life to see her exploring the place where her family came from.
On the other side of Sixpenny Cross, another husband and wife stayed indoors, oblivious to the beautiful day and the sunshine streaming through their dirty windows.
“You stupid woman! You’re pregnant again? For gawd’s sake, what do we need another brat for?” Th
e man leaned forward, eyes narrowed to slits, his finger stabbing her shoulder. “Get rid of it! Did you ’ear me? I said get rid of it.”
His wife stared at him as he emptied a beer bottle down his throat.
Maybe I will get rid of this one, she thought bitterly.
He belched.
Or maybe I won’t. That would teach Mr ’igh and Mighty.
She raised her own beer to her lips and drank deeply.
Months passed. It was April the 5th, 1955, and Britain was shocked, but not surprised, to hear the following radio announcement.
“The Right Honorable Sir Winston Churchill had an audience with the Queen this evening and tendered his resignation as Prime Minister and First Lord of the Treasury, which Her Majesty was graciously pleased to accept.”
The man who had led Britain throughout the war was eighty years old and his health was failing.
Down in the south of England, in the Tait household in the village of Sixpenny Cross, nobody heard the announcement. The radio wasn’t even switched on.
A new life was beginning. And from the second that June and Donald Tait’s newborn baby took her first gasp of air and yelled, she was adored.
“It’s a girl!” said the midwife. “A beautiful baby girl with an excellent set of lungs. Let me just give her a little wash, and then I’ll pass her to you and call your husband upstairs before he wears out the linoleum with his pacing up and down.”
June lay exhausted but numb with happiness. After all the miscarriages and two heartbreaking stillbirths, they finally had a perfect, healthy baby.
“Do you know what you’re going to call her?” asked the midwife.
The Sixpenny Cross Collection Page 7
