by Penny Parkes
Nigel, it seemed, took his new responsibilities seriously, refusing to be left behind when a trip to the pub had been mooted, now contentedly sauntering along beside Connor and Kitty through the Market Place. Almost unrecognisable under the drifts of snow, the scene was like something from one of those hefty coffee table picture books, albeit with the residents of Larkford taking full advantage of their snow day; certainly the row of anatomically correct snowmen was probably more Instagram-appropriate.
Even the snow was different in the countryside, Connor decided. Swathes of sparkling white drifts covered the fields and, in the Market Place, it was melting into pools of crystal rather than the greying slush he was used to on Ken’ High Street. Cars had been abandoned under their individual igloos and the snow seemingly embraced by one and all (once the livestock were safely tucked up obviously) as an excuse to spend the day together letting off steam. He wondered if it could possibly last: a few more inches of snow tonight and the valley would be cut off completely. Would they still be so enthusiastic then?
The icy shell forming on the snow crackled with each step and Connor flinched for a second, as his hand brushed against Kitty’s, a flicker of electricity passing between them. Even as Kitty reached out and gently took his hand, gave a fleeting squeeze and let go, Connor felt his thoughts begin to somersault in that disconcerting way that meant he had lost control of his equilibrium.
He never knew what the trigger might be; sometimes just a simple thought was enough.
And the thoughts he was having about Kitty Clarke were anything but simple. ‘Kitty—’ he began, his voice cracking.
‘What the hell do you call this?’ shouted Cassie Holland stridently, making both Connor and Kitty jump and chasing whatever words he’d managed to formulate from his mind in an instant.
Cassie stood before them, flushed and furiously waving one of the draft flyers for the putative festival in her hand.
He automatically checked his back pocket for the flyer he carried everywhere, as a talisman of sorts. Empty. Not exactly the way he was planning on pitching Phase Three to the town.
‘I think you’ve got a bloody nerve, coming here with all your money and your self-importance and your bees!’ Cassie spat the last word in distaste at the very notion.
It was only a matter of moments before half the town had emerged from their shop fronts, or abandoned their snowmen to earwig on this latest showdown. It seemed that Cassie’s dislike for Connor even eclipsed her vocal condemnation of poor Alec French at the school. When Cassie ‘took against’ someone, she didn’t need to have rhyme or reason on her side and she wasn’t one for changing her mind.
Kitty took hold of Nigel’s lead rein and placed her hand warningly on Connor’s arm.
But Connor was well used to hecklers and caustic reviews.
He knew perfectly well how to brazen it out in public, to make sure that nobody ever saw the pain or vulnerability he actually experienced on the wrong end of a vitriolic attack, even in his current fragile state.
‘Oh, thanks, Cassie. I wondered where I’d dropped that.’ He squared his shoulders and took four fast paces towards her, plucking the flyer from her fingers before she could react, folding it neatly and sliding it back into his pocket. He couldn’t ignore the idea that, with jeans this tight, it was highly unlikely that the flyer could have fallen out without a little ‘help’.
Cassie rounded furiously, turning to include their newfound audience in her tirade. ‘He’s going to overrun the town with musicians and their groupies, and their drugs, and their sex, and their—’
‘Oooh,’ said Lucy, the receptionist from The Practice who’d been out to stock up on HobNobs, ‘are you having a concert?’
‘This is a disgrace,’ said Malcolm Bodley, their ineffectual local councillor, at the same time. ‘I shall be having words.’
‘Actually,’ said Connor, raising his voice but keeping his cool, even as his heart hammered furiously and his fingers tingled ominously, ‘I’m organising a festival to celebrate the Winter Solstice. With music and food and books . . . And I’m hoping that it will bring lots of people to Larkford who might never have experienced the community and the beauty that I have been lucky enough to enjoy with you. I hope they spend money in your shops and your restaurants, stay in your hotels and B&Bs, and generally put Larkford on the map as the Capital of the Cool Cotswolds.’ He shrugged, his friable energy suddenly flagging. ‘I was actually hoping you’d be excited.’
Nigel broke into a perfectly timed yodel of braying that drowned out everyone else’s words.
‘I think Nigel speaks for most of us,’ said Kitty firmly. ‘It’s a wonderful idea and an excellent way to promote our town, for business and tourism.’ She spoke so firmly that it was almost as though she were reminding everyone clustered around them of their manners and there was a hushed lull once she and Nigel had finished saying their piece.
But it was only a momentary respite, before the huddle of residents seemed to divide in two: both sides equally vocal and equally unswerving.
‘Crikey,’ said Connor, his words only audible to Kitty right beside him, in the swell of outspoken argument. ‘Who knew the idea of one little festival could rile up quite so many people, quite so quickly?’
Kitty gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Anyone who lives here, actually.’
‘Oh,’ said Connor, deflating still further, floored a little that his own desire to make a difference, to contribute something positive to his new home town, should have triggered such a reaction.
‘Give it time,’ said Kitty gently. ‘And maybe find a way to communicate what you were trying to achieve before the nay-sayers gain any traction. We’re only a small community, but there’s a lot of big personalities. And some of them do love something to oppose.’ She grinned. ‘It doesn’t always seem to matter what they’re opposing; they just love a good argument.’
Connor blinked at the scene of acrimony he had unwittingly created. It was just as well that his purchase of The Big House and his tenancy of Blackleigh Farm were both signed and sealed, or he got the impression that half the town might be driving him out of Larkford with pitchforks.
‘Give them time,’ said Kitty easily, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder by way of moral support, her warm breath misting in the cold air. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’
‘I wasn’t aiming for a new civilisation,’ said Connor, longing for more than fleeting contact, and yet shying away at the same time. ‘I just thought it might be a bit special, you know, to have a fabulous festival right here that everyone could enjoy. To celebrate the history of this place if nothing else.’
‘We’ll find a way to make this work,’ she promised, earning herself a watery smile.
‘Well, if nothing else,’ said Connor with a sigh, ‘then at least Nigel here believes in me,’ he said, scruffing the donkey’s mane between his ears.
Kitty leaned forward apologetically, teasing out the remains of the flyer from Nigel’s mouth. ‘Oh, Nigel,’ she said in disappointment, as the donkey hung his head and Connor’s face dropped.
‘Et tu, Brute?’ he said.
*
Connor braved the Market Place later that same evening, lights illuminating each and every window, feeling as though he might always be on the outside, looking in. There were some people in Larkford apparently who objected so strongly to his festival plans that they were prepared to deface his stupid bloody Range Rover before he could even sell the thing.
It was an absolute kick in the guts, he couldn’t deny it, but they didn’t seem to realise he was as stubborn as Nigel the donkey when backed into a corner. If anything, their very dissonance only spurred his ambition forward, even as his brittle mood took yet another battering.
‘I see I’m not the only one walking the lonely streets at dark,’ said Elsie, emerging from Holly’s front door in a faux fur coat that reached her ankles, looking almost shifty.
‘Crowded head, empty heart?’ Connor rep
lied, earning himself a winsome smile for recognising the line of poetry to which Elsie eluded.
‘Something like that. Or perhaps the opposite – difficult to be sure at my age.’ She paused. ‘You look a little glum, darling,’ Elsie said. ‘Dare I ask about your festival-thingummy?’
Connor shrugged. ‘I had Docie Lynn on the phone just now,’ he said, casually name-dropping the chart-topping sweetheart of the moment. ‘Heard about the festival and wanted to know if she could perform. Her manager’s coming down for a meeting. Apparently Docie’s into all things organic and “Cotswoldy” – I have no idea what to tell her; yes, you can come, but you might get egged by the locals?’
‘Ah, but at least they’d be organic eggs,’ Elsie said with a twinkle, her humour nevertheless missing the mark.
‘Tell you what,’ said Elsie, tucking her arm firmly through his as she slipped a little on the icy pavement, ‘since you’re clearly in need of a little indulgence, a little A-list pick-me-up, I’m going to show you something that not many people in Larkford have seen.’
She walked up to the door of Number 44 and slipped a shiny new key in the lock. ‘Are you ready?’
Connor simply nodded, bemused, wondering for a second whether this feisty octogenarian was actually coming on to him. As he stepped inside though, he couldn’t help but gasp. ‘Oh my God – whose house is this?’
‘Mine,’ said Elsie simply, with a pride and possessiveness that made him instantly smile.
Convention be damned: Elsie had decorated this house to her own tastes, rather than those of the traditional Georgian oeuvre. There were no Wedgwood blues, or sage greens in sight. In fact the hallway was a triumph in cool lilac and grey – still warm and inviting due to the multitude of vintage magazine articles framed and hanging hotch-potch all over the walls, fitting together like a carefully curated mosaic.
‘I decided I’m too old to be modest about my achievements. There’s nothing worse than being underestimated, I’m finding. So this little project – this house that belongs to nobody but me – comes with no memories of heartbreak, or disappointment. So it’s going to be my epitaph. Good idea, no?’
‘Amazing idea,’ said Connor, utterly entranced, and wondering why he himself hadn’t done something similar at The Big House – a fresh start, of course, but with all his greatest achievements and loves on display for everyday celebration and reminders. ‘You are my Yoda,’ he said with a smile.
Elsie chortled. ‘And you haven’t even seen the drinks fridge yet.’ She waggled her fingers for him to follow her as they walked from room to room. Her taste and style still prevalent, even though it was clear that the intention was to shock and engage, rather than soothe and welcome her guests.
‘And what does Holly think about all this? It’s quite a departure from your usual style?’
‘Ah, well, who wants to be ordinary? And, to be honest, I’m slightly bottling it about showing her. It turns out, hers is the only opinion – after my own – that truly matters to me,’ Elsie confessed.
‘I can see that,’ Connor said, deftly twisting the champagne bottle until the cork eased free and pouring out two delicate coupes of vintage fizz. No flutes for Elsie – old school glamour, all the way. ‘But, I have to say, Elsie, that if Holly loves you half as much as I think she does, she’s simply going to be thrilled that you’ve a home and a project that you love.’
‘Ah, love,’ toasted Elsie, raising her glass to his before taking a sip. ‘Never a straightforward one, is it? I mean, look at you – pining away for your lovely wife, denying all those nascent feelings towards our gorgeous vet I gather—’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Connor, choking on his champagne. ‘You really don’t miss a trick, do you?’
‘Not if I can help it,’ Elsie smiled. ‘But if I may, as one who has been both divorced and widowed, can I offer a little advice?’ She didn’t pause; the question was purely rhetorical. ‘It’s not very often in life that you truly connect with someone. Celebrate your time with Rachel, as a love that was lost. Seize the moment with Kitty, and allow your heart to heal.’
When she said it, thought Connor, it sounded so simple.
Elsie smiled. ‘Easier said than done though, yes?’
‘Something like that,’ agreed Connor, topping up her glass and sitting back into one of the plush velvet armchairs, whose vivid pink colour and petal-shaped cushions gave the disarming illusion of reclining among upholstered labia.
‘I’m so glad you like my fanny chairs,’ said Elsie bluntly. ‘I did have a moment’s pause when I bought them, that some chaps might find them, well, a little overwhelming.’
‘They’re lovely,’ croaked Connor, unwilling to admit there was a chance he might be one of them, as he took another sip of champagne.
*
An hour later, and slightly the worse for wear, Connor stepped out into the Market Place, popping the empty champagne bottle in the recycling bucket as instructed. The wrought-iron streetlights cast curlicues of light and shadow across the otherwise deserted space.
Deserted that is, apart from the very person he wanted most to see. Or possibly to avoid.
Lit only by the sodium glow, Kitty was attempting to gently lift Mrs Hudson’s ancient wolfhound into the back of her knackered Subaru with some difficulty. He bounded across the Market Place, skidding and sliding, just in time to catch Jamieson’s hind-quarters as they slipped out of her grasp. ‘Crikey. He’s no lightweight is he?’
Kitty sniffed miserably and fondled his rather shaggy ears, gently cupping them to make sure he couldn’t hear her. ‘Mrs Hudson can’t cope with him anymore. She’s not in the best of health and neither is poor Jamieson. Dodgy hips, dodgy back, dodgy knees. It’s just too much for her.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘He’s had another funny turn tonight and she called me out in a panic. I’m supposed to take him to the clinic and do the deed.’
‘No!’ gasped Connor, himself an increasingly soft touch whenever it came to animals. He’d lost count of the number of times Clive had chastised him for it – apparently farmers were simply supposed to harden their hearts. His success as a farmer was in grave doubt if that really were a prerequisite.
Between them they lifted Jamieson into the boot, into a nest of Puffa jackets and Vet-pad. He looked soulful in his demise.
‘Is there really nothing to be done for him?’ Connor said, putting his arm around a tearful Kitty and blinking hard, even as a tiny part of his subconscious registered their momentary intimacy.
‘Well, if he was my dog—’ Kitty broke off and sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Connor. ‘If he was your dog . . . ?’
‘Well,’ said Kitty, perching on the edge of the boot and cradling Jamieson’s enormous head in her lap, seemingly oblivious to the light flurries of snow that slowly began to whirl in the chill breeze. ‘Big dogs don’t live very long. Their hearts can’t cope, you see. But he’s only eight. If he had more regular exercise, some hydrotherapy or something, and a decent daily painkiller he could easily have another two years of quality life left in him. But it’s expensive, you know, and Mrs Hudson’s insurance policy won’t cover it. I guess she thinks it’s the right decision.’ She looked up at Connor and his heart thudded deeply in his chest at the very expression on her face. ‘The Rescue Home won’t take him.’
‘Then I will,’ blurted Connor suddenly, before his brain could even engage with what he was saying out loud, or indeed question his motivation. ‘I can afford his drugs, I’ve got plenty of space at home and there has to be somewhere local I can take the old chap swimming? What’s one more dog among the chaos of Agatha’s pack?’ He shrugged, buying into his own argument without hesitation as he saw the light in Kitty’s eyes at the very suggestion. ‘And it is my favourite Irish whiskey too. Maybe it’s a sign?’
‘Or maybe you’re just a big softie and a very lovely man?’ Kitty stood up and kissed Connor lightly on the cheek. ‘Thank you.’
His
heart pounded erratically in his chest and he felt the all-too-familiar forewarning spackles in his vision, but this – this moment – was too important to sully with his angst. ‘You’ll help me, though, yes?’ he managed, wondering if she understood that he wasn’t just talking about the dog.
‘Of course,’ she promised with a gentle smile.
Had he really just adopted a geriatric wolfhound just to see that look upon her face, he wondered. The sight of Jamieson’s trusting expression told him the truth of the matter – he and Jamieson needed to stick together. He’d have adopted him no matter what.
And the fact that Kitty would help him settle in? Well, that was both a blessing and a curse – because as quickly as he’d recognised his true feelings towards her, so the unbearable punch of guilt inevitably followed – the one that made an appearance every time he forgot about Rachel and dared to be happy, even for a moment.
Yes, Kitty was his kind of girl. But she could be his friend.
Friends was okay.
Elsie was wrong; friends was enough.
Chapter 25
‘Morning. You’re up bright and early,’ said Holly, whispering into her mobile phone as the rest of the household negotiated its fragile passage from sleep to breakfast.
‘Early, yes. Bright? Not so much.’ Alice took a breath and swallowed hard. ‘I’ve been up all night being sick. And there’s no way I can get into work. I’ve checked the schedule and everyone else is fully booked all day—’
Holly felt a momentary frisson of annoyance: they didn’t seem to want her back at work, until they were in a pickle and then, apparently, it was okay? Or was this simply because the Larkford tom-toms had been beating since Mike’s doorstep encounter with Dan?
