Starting Over at Acorn Cottage

by Kate Forster

  Rachel had smiled at them when she passed because of the secret she held from Moira but now she wondered if she smiled because Joe gave them to her.

  She squeezed his hand. It was impulsive but it felt right, thinking about the past and being here now.

  Joe squeezed her hand back, and Rachel realised that there were parts of her past that were okay, maybe even nice. If only she could block out the other parts, she might just survive it with Joe holding her hand.

  41

  The mornings were still warm, with the roses on the fence demanding attention when Clara went out to try and tie them back. She had been clearing the undergrowth of weeds and volunteer plants that had popped up over the past decades, happy in their wild setting.

  Tassie had loaned her a book of common garden plants and she was outside every morning trying to identify them, and work out which ones she wanted to keep, train, tame or do away with. Between gardening and knitting and looking after the chicken and finishing the painting of the inside of the house Clara was busy and tired at night. It was a different sort of tiredness than she had felt before. More bone-weary but happy with what she had achieved. She could see the work starting to emerge in the garden with a sense of order among the wild plantings.

  There was a peace in the garden in the mornings; even the chickens seemed to respect her time, as they pottered about in the coop. Pansy would always check for the eggs before Henry took her to Tassie’s for reading lessons in the morning.

  When he was back, Clara would have made them coffee and they would talk about what they wanted to do that morning around the cottage or the garden.

  Sometimes plans went awry and they ended up in bed again, learning each other’s bodies and desperate to be in constant physical contact.

  Other times they pottered about. The roof was finished, the insulation was in, and the insurance company had taken the van away to be repaired.

  It seemed odd to look out the window and not see the van with the oak tree branch on top, but it also felt safe. The van was a constant reminder that Henry and Pansy could go at any moment.

  They hadn’t talked about what next after the cottage was finished and the van was fixed.

  Henry didn’t discuss the future or make overtures about them being married or staying in the cottage or even what was happening next week.

  They had a month before Pansy started school and there was a sense of avoidance around both issues.

  But Clara didn’t know how to bring it up. If she said, Stay with me and keep your dead wife’s ashes in the cupboard in the cottage pie container, and let’s get married and I will love Pansy as my own, she thought he would run.

  She wondered if she was actually his rebound relationship.

  But there were moments when it was so perfect she thought she would die from happiness.

  ‘Take a mental snapshot,’ her mother used to say when something nice happened.

  Clara’s mind was filled with them now.

  Henry handing her tea in the garden and admiring her digging work in the vegetable patch.

  Pansy on her lap as she read her the stories about the chair with wings and a naughty pixie.

  Pansy calling out excitedly when she found an egg in the chicken coop, as though it was extraordinary and she hadn’t collected three the day before.

  Henry’s face when he was above her. His face when he was below her. The look in his eyes when she knew he was going to lead her to bed.

  Henry was taking Pansy to Tassie’s, so she walked to the oak tree and stood underneath its beautiful canopy and stood quietly.

  ‘Listen to the whispers,’ Tassie had said.

  She stood in the silent morning, waiting.

  ‘What do I need to know?’ she whispered to the tree. A slight breeze drifted past, and she closed her eyes and tried to hear.

  She could hear the occasion chat of the chickens. Leaves rustling. But nothing else was coming into range.

  She tried to block out all the sounds and focus on the trees but still couldn’t hear anything.

  She laughed at herself as she heard her car pull up outside and walked around to see Henry, holding something in his arms.

  ‘What have you got?’ She smiled at him. He was being very careful and tender as he moved towards her.

  ‘I bought you something, although Pansy will fight you for it.’

  Clara peered into his arms and saw a blanket and a little black nose.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a puppy.’ He held it out for her to take.

  ‘A puppy?’ Clara was genuinely confused. ‘You were taking Pansy to lessons. How did you come across a puppy?’

  She moved the blanket and saw the little face and was instantly in love.

  ‘Oh my God. What’s its name?’ asked Clara, as she held the tiny thing to her face.

  A little pink tongue licked her cheek.

  ‘Whatever you want to call him,’ said Henry, beaming at her and the puppy.

  ‘What sort of dog is it?’ She held it up to look at him. He was brown with black markings and he was squat with tiny legs and a funny-shaped long body and a larger head. He was completely out of proportion and Clara was madly in love with the dog and Henry.

  ‘Joe the butcher had him in his van. I saw him when I was leaving Tassie’s. He was going to see Rachel and showed me him in the car. Rachel said she couldn’t have him in the bakery. Joe thinks he is part-dachshund, part-Labrador. His neighbour found him in a gumboot. They thought it was a rat. Perhaps another farmer put them out to die and this one escaped. They’re not sure.’

  ‘Oh, darling,’ said Clara, holding the pup close to her. ‘In a gumboot – that is the saddest thing I have ever heard.’ She looked up at Henry.

  ‘We will need to go to Chippenham and get puppy things,’ she said and handed the dog to Henry. ‘Put him in the garden and encourage him to do a wee and let me get my bag.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Henry and she leaned up and kissed his cheek. ‘You are a sweet, sweet man. I didn’t even know I wanted a dog until I met Gumboot.’

  ‘Gumboot?’ He laughed as they walked in the gate and Henry put the dog onto the grass.

  ‘He is shaped like a gumboot and was found in one. I think it’s fitting. If the gumboot fits, as they say.’

  ‘Okay, Gumboot it is then,’ said Henry.

  Clara rushed inside and picked up her handbag and her phone. She saw she had three missed calls from an unknown number but no messages were left, so she ignored them and found a box and blanket for Gumboot and went out and put it on the back seat.

  ‘He can sit in the back,’ she said, as Henry carried him over and carefully placed him in the box on the soft blanket.

  ‘You drive,’ she said. ‘In case he needs me.’

  Henry laughed as they got into the car.

  ‘We should get him looked at by a vet,’ said Clara.

  ‘Joe already did. He’s fine but small. Needs proper food and care and he will bounce back.’

  By the time they drove back to Merryknowe, Gumboot had a new bed, special puppy food, toys, a little hot water bottle for night-time and a little jacket to grow into for cold days.

  He also had a navy-blue collar and with a silver tag engraved with his name and Clara’s phone number.

  ‘We’ll pick up Pansy and then head home,’ Henry said as they drove into the village.

  Lunchtime was busy at the bakery, with people spilling around the front eating sausage rolls out of brown paper bags and the tables inside were filled. A large tourist bus was parked further down near the church. Gumboot was asleep in the box, exhausted from the time in the pet store and the car, where he’d cried until Clara held him.

  Clara went to the shop and walked inside and went behind the counter.

  ‘So busy,’ she said to Rachel who passed with three plates of Devonshire teas.

  ‘We were named on some website as being the best tearooms in the area and this is the second bus to come
and they said there will be another one later. I can’t keep up.’ Rachel rushed out to the tables, frazzled.

  Clara saw Alice was helping and another girl she presumed was a friend of Alice’s.

  ‘I would stay and help but I have a new dog,’ she said as Rachel whizzed by again, as though on roller skates. She looked down at Rachel’s feet and saw she was wearing new fashionable sneakers.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ she commented.

  ‘Thanks. Alice recommended them, so Joe took me to Salisbury to buy them,’ said Rachel and Clara saw her blush.

  ‘Lovely,’ she said. Rachel looked her age now, not like a retired nun, and whatever was happening with her and Joe was giving her a spring in her sneakered step.

  ‘I will need to talk to you later about what we can do about Moira. Do you want to catch up at the pub tonight?’

  Rachel nodded. ‘Seven?’ she suggested.

  Clara agreed and left them to the rush.

  Her phone rang as she was leaving the tearooms. The same number as before and she answered it, hoping it wasn’t Judas or Piles.

  ‘Clara Maxwell?’ asked the voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  It’s James Lang from Commercial Property in Salisbury. I am trying to get onto Rachel Brown but she isn’t answering, so her mother gave me your number.’

  ‘How can I help?’ asked Clara carefully. What was Moira up to now? she wondered. Moira Brown was a piece of work and her instincts told her this call wasn’t good news.

  ‘Mrs Brown has decided to sell the bakery and tearooms and I am to come and take measurements, and she wanted you to ensure Rachel would be there.’

  Clara stood in the middle of the road, as Pansy and Henry stepped out of Tassie’s house and waved at them.

  She paused and then she spoke clearly and firmly.

  ‘Moira Brown doesn’t own that property. Her stepdaughter Rachel Brown does, so tell her she can go and stick it up her jumper, because we are about to take her to court for everything and more. So tell her to get ready because I’m about to make her life as pleasant as she made Rachel’s for the last twenty-five years.’

  42

  Convincing Rachel to see Moira at the rehabilitation centre took some serious negotiating and swift talking from Clara but in the end, losing the bakery and tearooms was a bigger fear than the venom that Moira spat out. Clara had driven her to the hospital and was waiting in the car park in case she needed her. Rachel just had to call, using the new phone that she had bought with Joe when they went shopping. She held the phone in the pocket of her jacket as she walked towards the centre.

  The automatic doors of the hospital opened and Rachel saw Moira sitting inside the reception area. She was without makeup and her hair was flat and without colour. She looked much older, thought Rachel but not unkindly. It was the truth but she wouldn’t say it aloud to Moira. She had worn a new denim jacket and a sundress with tiny green and pink flowers on it that Clara had given her, stating it didn’t suit her. Everything suited Clara, so Rachel knew it was because she thought Rachel dressed like an old woman, which she did because Moira had always chosen her clothes.

  But Clara wanted to take her shopping for clothes and for ideas for the tearooms. Her world was so exciting now, but the sight of Moira made her feel sick. She took a deep breath as Tassie had told her to – she said it helped settle the nerves and blow the bad spirits out, and then the truth will be said.

  ‘I’m here to get you to sign some papers,’ she said as Clara had instructed.

  Moira waved her hand at her. ‘Go away, I’m not signing anything for you.’

  ‘You took the money Dad left me and spent it and now you want to sell the bakery and tearooms and keep the money? And you lied to me about you being my mother.’ Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t understand how you could do that.’

  ‘What have you done to your hair? It looks awful,’ said Moira but Rachel knew it did not look awful, so she ignored the insult. For so long she had thought everything Moira said was true. But she was coming to realise she was nothing of what Moira said and so much more of what Joe and Tassie and Clara saw in her.

  ‘Clara says I could sue you,’ stated Rachel, trying to remember everything Clara had coached her on, and in what order.

  The real estate agent had told Moira what Clara said and in three days Moira had called the shop relentlessly until Rachel agreed to go and see her.

  Clara had offered to but Rachel knew Moira only wanted her so they discussed the approach.

  ‘You owe her nothing,’ said Clara. ‘Do not respond to insults or her manipulation. She’s only saying it to try and get you to get upset and cave to her demands.’

  But Rachel was worried. No one was as good at manipulation as Moira Brown, and no one could survive one of her emotional attacks. Rachel prayed for neither but wasn’t holding out hope.

  ‘Sit down and tell me about the shop,’ said Moira, changing tack.

  Rachel sat on one of the visitors’ chairs and remembered Clara’s words. ‘Tell her nothing. Everything is the same as usual.’

  Rachel cleared her throat. ‘It’s fine. Same as always.’

  Moira looked at her closely. ‘But that’s not true surely?’

  Rachel tried to think what Clara had advised if Moira doubted her but she realised they hadn’t covered this part.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Rachel but her voice sounded uncertain to her.

  ‘Have you put the prices up?’ asked Moira. Rachel could feel her eyes searching her face.

  ‘No,’ she said, happy to have told the truth.

  ‘So nothing has changed but you’re making four times as much? How is that possible?’ asked Moira.

  Rachel was silent, trying to think, wishing she had brought Clara, who was outside in the car waiting.

  Moira leaned forward and dug her long nails into Rachel’s bare leg. ‘Why are you lying to me? I see the bank deposits. You didn’t think about that, did you? What have you done to my shop?’

  ‘It’s my shop,’ said Rachel in a small voice.

  Moira’s nails went deeper. ‘No, it’s my shop. I bought it. I raised you. I fed you and clothed you. I gave you a job because you couldn’t do anything else. You owe me everything. I could have given you to the orphanage. You’re a sad, retarded girl whose own father didn’t want to be around her so he hanged himself for me to find.’

  Her words pierced Rachel’s heart like Moira’s thumbnail was piercing her skin on her thigh but she thought of Joe and Clara and Alice and the shop. She thought of Tassie and Pansy and the lady who wrote to her saying she wanted to write a story about Rachel’s baking skills, and she thought about her father.

  ‘Get your hand off me,’ she hissed so fiercely that Moira did. Then she leaned forward. ‘You are a sad, ugly woman who my father hated so much he would rather die than spend another day with you. I read his will. Did you know he left a copy at the probate office?’

  Moira’s face went even paler than it already was.

  ‘He left the money to me and his sister and somehow, you managed to not let my aunt know and you took me and the money and turned me into your slave.’

  Rachel paused, trying to gather the right words. She had never been one to gives speeches. Since her father had died, she had been told to be quiet, that she was stupid, that she was useless and hopeless.

  Clara and Tassie showed her this wasn’t true. Her own skills in the kitchen proved Moira wrong but there was something else and she grasped the tiny acorn in her pocket that Tassie had told her to carry for strength and luck.

  ‘I don’t know how you have been able to live with yourself this entire time, Moira, so how you move forward in life is your decision, but my decision is I do not want you anywhere near me and my shop. I will pay you half of what the building is worth, so you can have some money to get started and that’s my final offer.’

  ‘I won’t accept,’ said Moira haughtily.

  Rachel leaned forward and whispered in Moira’s ea
r. ‘You don’t have a choice, Moira. Otherwise I will go from here to the police and have you charged with abuse and fraud, so can you tell me if you will accept the deal now?’

  She stared at Moira, waiting for the reply even though she knew the answer. Eventually Moira nodded and turned her face away from Rachel.

  Rachel walked out of the building into the bright sunshine and to Clara’s car.

  Gumboot jumped up at the window when she came to the side and Clara grabbed him so Rachel could open the door.

  ‘How did it go?’ asked Clara as Rachel sat in the seat and stared ahead.

  ‘She didn’t sign the papers to hand over the deed of the building.’

  ‘What a bitch, give them to me, I’ll get her to sign.’ Clara went to pull them from Rachel’s hands.

  ‘No,’ she snapped and held on to them.

  ‘Rachel, you can’t let her win. We talked about this at the pub. You agreed she needs to do the right thing.’

  But Rachel shook her head. ‘I am not letting her win. I’m letting her go. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hating her. I don’t hate her; I feel nothing towards her. I will sell the tearooms and give her the money, and keep the bakery. It will be enough to live on.’

  ‘But your dream for the tearoom,’ cried Clara.

  Rachel thought about spending the future fighting Moira over her fraudulent claim to her money and having to relive the pain and loss of her parents, and the lies Moira had told her.

  Moira was a sad and lonely woman who had once been a beauty and who was now bitter from her decisions in life.

  Tassie had once said there was nothing sadder than a faded beauty, and she realised that was true. Moira was truly lost and part of Rachel felt compassion but she couldn’t forgive her.

  She turned to Clara. ‘I can’t let this guide my life. I hated her for so long and would dream of one hundred ways to kill her. What does that make me? I don’t want to live with that anymore. I just want her out of my life and for my life to move forward. If that means I have to have a smaller life to be free of her, then that’s okay with me, so it should be okay with you.’