‘We saw that there was mail for you,’ the woman said and rubbed the window half-heartedly. ‘Postmarked Herefordshire, is that where you’re from?’
Hattie nodded and struggled with her grip, as two vast Lycra-covered buttocks threatened to engulf her.
‘That’s me done,’ the woman said and heaved herself down. She stared at Hattie. ‘Joan Roberts, owner of this store. My other half, Arnie, is inside. Come and meet him.’
Hattie allowed Joan to grab her arm and manhandle her into the shop where a tall, rake-thin man stood behind a counter. With brows furrowed over the pinched-in cheeks of his sallow face, his mournful eyes watched Hattie approach.
‘Arnie, this is Mrs Mulberry from the old cottage in Lover’s Lane. It belonged to her aunt. You remember Annie? She died not so long back.’ Joan thrust Hattie forward. ‘Mrs Mulberry has just moved in.’
‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Hattie.’ She held out her hand.
Arnie nodded and Hattie felt his clammy fingers softly shake her hand. She resisted the urge to snatch it away. Looking around at the sparsely stocked shop, she noted the stark interior under fluorescent lights that highlighted half-empty shelves. Fading post-cards sat in a rusting rack alongside a pile of second-hand books.
‘If there’s anything you need, just let us know,’ Joan said. ‘We deliver the papers and there’s fresh bread and pies every day.’
Hattie’s eyes fell on the display of pork pies, set out under a glass dome. Joan wedged her body behind the counter and onto a chair then reached for a box of fancies and offered one to Hattie.
‘Don’t mind if I do,’ Hattie said and took a cake. ‘I’ll take a loaf and a pork pie too.’ She reached for her purse.
‘Put that away, have your first shop on us,’ Joan said. ‘If you need anything delivering, Arnie here will call by.’ She picked up a loaf of bread and a small pie and placed them into a brown paper bag.
‘Thank you.’ Hattie said, ‘nice to meet you both.’ As she stepped out of the shop and began to walk briskly away, she felt eyes burn into her back and was sure that Joan and Arnie had moved over to the window, to see where she was going.
The sun was warm, and Hattie unbuttoned her coat, wishing that she’d worn something lighter. She bit into her cake but, as her teeth cracked the stale icing, she winced and slipped it, unfinished, into her pocket.
A row of shops lined the narrow road and boxes full of apples, oranges and bananas spilled onto the pavement outside a greengrocer. Soil-covered vegetables looked home-grown and tempting. There was an electricity shop and a charity store with a brightly decorated window, exhibiting an assortment of colourful clothes and knick-knacks.
In the butcher’s shop, meat was displayed in neatly arranged trays. Strips of plastic grass separated lamb chops from lean steaks and plump chicken breasts and behind a marble counter with a thick wooden block, the butcher waved as Hattie studied a joint of beef. He wiped his fingers on his striped apron and called out that his produce was all local and she was welcome to try. Hattie paused, tempted by the sausages, and the butcher, sensing a new customer, snipped off a link of six, and wrapped them in greaseproof paper. ‘On the house,’ he smiled, his ruddy cheeks shiny and hands leather-like and calloused, as he held out the sausages for Hattie to take. ‘Prick ‘em with a fork before cooking.’
Hattie mumbled her thanks and, tucking the sausages into the bag with the bread and pie, went on her way.
She was gasping for a drink.
A grassy expanse of green spread across the centre of the village, where the pond glinted in the sunlight. Hattie paused to watch a duck dip its head in the water. It shook as it emerged and drops sprayed, making tiny circles that rippled across the still surface.
The duck looked up and met Hattie’s eye.
She fumbled about with the crust on the loaf and, breaking a piece off, tossed it on the pond. The duck dived for the morsel and in seconds the crust was gone.
Hattie continued her walk and studied the buildings that made up the village of Hollywood. Drystone walls and hedgerows separated white-walled properties, with grey-slate roofs and circular chimney pots. Large houses stood alongside rows of pretty cottages in tightly packed lanes, contrasting with the spacious farms and barn conversions that lay on the outlying hills.
The Holly Bush came into view and she smiled at the thought of a refreshing drink. The old thatched pub was an oasis, nestling on the edge of the village and, as Hattie got nearer, she saw that the door was open, welcoming the weary walker to the delights inside. She stepped in. A group of hikers sat in a snug, to one side of the pub. They tucked into crusty pies with fat, hand-cut chips and, as the delicious savoury aroma drifted into Hattie’s nostrils, her mouth watered. A group of men chatted at one end of the bar. They held pints of cask ale with creamy tops, trails of froth on the sides of their glasses.
‘Now then, what can I get a beautiful girl on such a sunny day?’
Hattie turned.
A man stood behind the bar, a smile lighting his handsome face. Hattie felt her cheeks colour as she stared into eyes the colour of treacle, deep pools that glowed with humour.
‘A gin and tonic, thank you.’
She watched him pick up a glass and reach for an optic, his arms strong beneath neatly rolled sleeves. Blue jeans hugged his hips and, adding ice to the glass, he flicked the top off a bottle of tonic and handed Hattie her drink. Hattie wished that she’d put some lipstick on, or at least combed her hair before coming into the pub. She guessed that the man was of similar age but wearing far better than he deserved if the mischievous twinkle in his eye was anything to go by.
Hattie smelt a rascal and was instantly drawn.
‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Welcome to Hollywood.’
‘I’ve just moved into the old cottage in Lover’s Lane,’ Hattie said and gulped her drink.
‘I know.’
‘Strange name for a lane, I don’t suppose there’s been much love in the lane in recent times.’ She was making foolish conversation and wondered what was in the gin.
‘That can be remedied.’ He winked and she felt her cheeks burn.
‘My name’s Reggie.’ He reached out a hand. ‘Reggie Cleator, and this is my pub. You’re most welcome.’
‘Hattie, Hattie Mulberry.’ She took his hand and strong fingers gripped her own.
‘Did you bring a friend with you?’ Reggie nodded towards the open door.
The duck from the pond stood on the threshold, its green head iridescent in the light, eyes black and beady as it stared at Hattie.
‘Oh heck, I fed it some bread,’ Hattie said and hoped that the duck didn’t come any further.
‘A crust from the convenience?’
‘Stale as rock.’
‘Caviar to a mallard; you’ve a friend for life.’
Hattie turned away from the duck and, ordering another drink, reached for a menu.
‘Have you met your neighbour yet?’ Reggie asked as he clinked ice and added lemon.
‘Do you mean Marjorie?’
‘The Widow Delaney,’ Reggie said and poured himself a beer.
‘Did you know her husband?’
‘Barry? Yes, he was a grand fellow, a regular here too.’
‘I know I shouldn’t ask, but why did he do it?’
‘Do you mean why did he top himself?’ Reggie asked. ‘I haven’t any idea.’ He raised his eyebrows and leaned in, resting his arms on the bar. ‘We were all shocked. He seemed alright a few nights before and was in here with the darts team. He won his match and
celebrated with drinks with the regulars.’
‘Did he come into the pub again?’
‘Well, yes, actually, the night before he died.’ Reggie shook his head. ‘He was very quiet, and I asked him if something was wrong, but he just shook his head, drank his pint and went home.’ Reggie paused. ‘Or so I thought.’
‘He went to the holly wood?’ Hattie’s voice was quiet.
‘So it seems.
They found his body the next day.’
‘How tragic.’
‘It’s a mystery.’ Reggie sighed. ‘A terrible thing, to be honest.’
‘I met Marjorie earlier.’
‘She’s so upset. It’s no wonder, as a couple they seemed very happy. You’ll be a good neighbour for her.’ ‘Why?’ Hattie looked puzzled.
‘Both being widows, recent too.’
‘Blimey. I’ve only been in the village twenty-four hours.’
‘You better get used to it.’ Reggie smiled. ‘Joan Roberts got the gossip going from the moment you parked your car.’
‘I wonder what she’ll make of Alf.’
‘I’ve put her straight that he’s not your lover.’ Reggie straightened up. ‘I know Alf from way back and he’s already given me the low-down on you; it’s all satisfactory, I’m happy to say.’ Reggie clinked his glass against Hattie’s. He lowered his voice and smiled. ‘But, if you find that you do want a lover…’
‘Pint over here, Reggie,’ a regular called out.
‘Coming up.’ Reggie moved away. ‘The chicken pie is very good,’ he called over his shoulder as he headed off to serve his customers. ‘I’ll tell the kitchen you’ll have a portion.’
Hattie picked up her drink and found a table. The food soon appeared, and she tucked in.
‘Something sweet to follow?’ Reggie asked a little while later as he cleared Hattie’s plate.
Hattie read the dessert board and decided on a sticky toffee pudding with ice-cream.
‘I like a woman with a good appetite.’
‘It helps keeps my curves in all the right places.’ Hattie gave Reggie a smile. She watched him move around his pub and decided that the landlord was most definitely the dish of the day. She may be a widow in her fifties, but Hattie was very much in tune with her emotions, which, she was pleased to say, still simmered at the sight of an attractive man.
Her dessert arrived and, as Hattie ate the last delicious spoonful, she resisted the urge to pick up her plate and lick trails of custard from the warm bowl. It was probably the best sticky toffee pudding she’d ever tasted. No wonder the place was so busy. Hungry diners waiting for tables eyed Hattie and her empty plate, willing her to move on and make room. Replenished with a tasty meal in her tummy and a large glass of wine, Hattie picked up her provisions and left Reggie to his customers.
As she began to make her way back to the cottage, she realised that she’d been out for ages and wondered how much work, if any, Alf had done in the time she’d been away. He’d probably be asleep on the bench with that daft dog curled up by his side.
Lost in her thoughts Hattie walked back to the cottage but was startled when, out of the blue, she heard a loud quack. She turned and gaped. The duck was waddling along behind her.
Hattie hurried across the green, but the duck was in hot pursuit and Hattie couldn’t shake it off. Cursing, she turned breathlessly into Lover’s Lane where she could see Alf in the distance, bent double, loading his vehicle with gardening equipment. The bugger, he’s escaping before I get back! Hattie cursed silently and opened her mouth to give Alf a piece of her mind.
Alf looked up. Ness had suddenly shot past him and was bounding down the lane. The dog crashed into Hattie’s legs, winding her and startling the duck, who was still following. Both dog and duck sensed that there was food in Hattie’s carrier bag and Ness began to bark as the duck started quacking again.
In the commotion, Hattie swore and plunged her hand into the bag to retrieve the stale bread. ‘Get these wretched animals off me!’ Hattie shouted to Alf as she broke the bread into pieces and threw the pork pie at Ness.
Alf began to laugh.
‘You can stop that, you lazy good for nothing.’ Hattie stormed into the garden. But as she opened the gate to the cottage, she gasped.
The front garden was tidy. Neat as a new pin. The lawn had been cut with edges trimmed and borders weeded and dug, the freshly turned soil a buffet of worms, who’d surfaced to be eaten by a family of robins hopping over the dark brown surface.
‘A duck, a dog and a death next door,’ Alf called out, ‘and now you have a half-decent garden.’ With a wave, he climbed into his vehicle and, whistling to Ness, who’d hopped in beside him, left Hattie, open-mouthed, standing on the path with the duck by her side.
‘Welcome to Hollywood,’ Hattie said and looked down at the duck.
‘Quack, quack,’ the duck replied.
4
The view from Hattie’s kitchen window was ever changing and, as she stood at the old stone sink and stared out across the back of the garden, she realised that she was beginning to feel at home. Heads of wheat swayed in the field and sparrows gathered on a stone wall, occasionally hopping off to peck at the newly turned soil.
The garden had changed considerably with Alf’s vigorous efforts and Hattie was delighted to find that she’d far more space than she’d first realised. With the overgrown vegetation cleared and borders and lawn restored there was now an open area at the back that overlooked fields and a wooded area. In the distance, Hattie could see the end of the Pennine Way that stretched into Cumbria from Yorkshire, forming a protective range to keep the harsher northern elements at bay.
A warm wind blew in from an open window and tousled Hattie’s hair. She reached up and touched the curls, tucking loose strands behind her ears, where any hint of grey blended into the strawberry blonde. Hattie wasn’t averse to the colourist’s pot. Getting older for Hattie was a state of mind best ignored, but she refused to give in to any tell-tale signs of ageing and used whatever lotions and potions she could find to ensure that she kept the advancing years at bay.
Hattie believed that middle age was most enjoyable if you had something worthwhile to do and she was determined to get the old cottage into a habitable state as soon as possible. She enjoyed having folk around her and wanted the place to be fit for visitors. It had been a week since the removal van had trundled up the lane and deposited her belongings and since then she’d not stopped, finding depths of energy that belied her years. There was far more work than she’d first anticipated but the place was now comfortable, in a fashion. She’d set up her bed in the biggest room upstairs and unpacked all her clothes. Downstairs she’d created a seating area in the living room, stacking most of the furniture ceiling high in rooms that would later come into use. Hattie had spent many hours cleaning away grime from years of neglect and now she would decide what to do with the cottage. With so many repairs and much decorating to be done, Alf was a godsend. He could turn his hand to most things and was already, with the dramatic change in the garden, worth his weight in gold.
Fortunately, Hattie didn’t have to worry about the costs.
She’d always been careful and put what she could to one side for her later years and Hugo had left her with ample funds. She’d been sad to leave his lovely home in Herefordshire but felt that it was only right that it should go back to his family. Hugo’s nephew and sons had taken on the family cider business and it was better that they had the benefit of the substantial property.
Hattie had more than enough to provide her with a comfortable life.
But as Hattie rinsed breakfast pots under the tap and stared out at the summer morning, she wondered yet again what she was going to do with her days, for she’d always been active and worked hard. She knew that she’d soon be bored with renovating the cottage and longed for something purposeful to get her teeth into.
A bell rang and startled Hattie.
She grabbed a tea-towel from a rail on an old Aga and dried her hands. Alf had found the old bell in the shed and hung it on a hook by the door. It sounded like a bicycle bell, short and sharp.
‘Hang on, I’m coming!’ she called out and hurried through the cottage.
Marjorie stood on the doorstep. Her blonde hair was styled in a neat chignon and though she was casual in jeans, a designer jacket made the outfit elegant. Hattie smoothed the wrinkles out of her old linen dress and wished th
at she’d wiped at a stain on her chest, left from breakfast.
‘Hello again,’ Hattie said.
‘You probably haven’t time for baking anything.’ Marjorie held a Tupperware box and thrust it forward. ‘I’ve so much time on my hands and decided to make you a carrot cake. I hope you like it.’
‘My favourite.’ Hattie took the offering. ‘Do come in.’
‘I haven’t been in here for years,’ Marjorie said as she stepped into the dark hall.
‘Watch your head on the beam.’ Hattie led her through a low doorway and into the sitting room. She pushed a pile of books to one side and plumped the dusty cushion of an old, wing-backed chair, indicating that Marjorie sit down. ‘What can I get you?’
‘What do you have?’
‘Well, it’s never too early for a livener in my opinion. Hugo and I normally had sherry in the morning.’
‘Then I’ll join you.’ Marjorie made herself comfortable in the upright chair and as Hattie clattered about in the kitchen, Marjorie looked around and noted that little had changed since the old aunt had lived there.
Hattie appeared with a tray and placed it on a table. She handed Marjorie a glass of sherry and a slice of cake then sat down on a battered leather couch that had seen better days.
‘Cheers,’ Hattie said and took a slurp, ‘to our dear departed hubbies.’ She observed Marjorie, who’d knocked the best part of her drink back and pushed the cake to one side.
Her neighbour was wearing well. Smart and extremely attractive, Marjorie’s face was immaculately made-up. But at the mention of husbands, her eyes glistened, and Hattie hoped that Marjorie wasn’t about to cry.
‘Tell me about Barry,’ she said. Perhaps talking would help.
‘We were married for thirteen years. I can’t believe he’s gone.’ Marjorie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
‘You’d no idea that he was troubled?’ Hattie asked as she sank her teeth into the carrot cake.
‘No. He seemed perfectly happy.’
‘How did he…’ Hattie fumbled for words. ‘What happened?’ She instantly regretted the insensitive question, but Marjorie didn’t seem to mind.
Hattie Goes to Hollywood: Shenanigans, fun & intrigue in a new mystery series! Page 3
