A PIECE OF CAKE
Page 6
‘As long as they don’t price out the local people,’ I said. There were always a surprisingly high number of children born in the valley, and of course, eventually, most of them moved away for work … and then later moved back again if they could possibly manage it. Maybe Halfhidden magnetised our feet, or something?
The tractor finally rumbled off up a farm track just before the pub and Judy paused the car briefly so I could admire the huge, freshly-painted sign outside, which boldly proclaimed: ‘WELCOME TO ONE OF THE MOST HAUNTED HOTELS IN BRITAIN!’
‘Is it?’ I said dubiously. ‘I thought really it only had Howling Hetty’s skull behind the bar, the footsteps on the backstairs at night and one haunted bedchamber.’
‘It is now,’ Judy said dryly.
‘The car park’s empty,’ I commented, as she drove off again.
‘Monday’s always quiet, with the weekend visitors gone home and the restaurant closed, and I don’t suppose Tuesday is ever much busier, so it’s a good night for Lulu to talk to everyone.’
‘Yes, that’s true, though it sounds as if she’d like to fill the hotel every night! She just sent me a text to ask me to go to the Hut early tomorrow to help her set things up for the meeting.’
‘What things?’
‘She didn’t say. I think she wants to surprise me.’
‘There are rumours that she’s been going up and down the valley talking to all kinds of people, but if she did, she must have sworn them to silence till the big reveal tomorrow night.’
The road took a sharp turn between dark hawthorn hedges starred with silvery constellations of blossom, and then began to climb. The dark and densely planted conifers of Sir Lionel Cripchet’s estate, Grimside, crowded up to the backs of the cottages on our left, while the tangled ancient woodland of Sweetwell lay to the right. Oddly, although Cripchet’s estate was well known to be overrun with grey squirrels, they never crossed the road into Sweetwell. Tom Tamblyn always reckoned that this was to do with the taste of the water there, which despite the name, was anything but sweet.
I put my window down and inhaled the familiar scents of home appreciatively. It was only the beginning of April, but already spring seemed to have arrived in the valley and all the buds and blooms were bursting forth at once, with bluebells, saffron yellow gorse and daffodils along the grass verge, and creamy magnolia and bright yellow forsythia in the gardens.
The cottages edging the lane grew in number for, although Halfhidden straggled all the way up the steep lane to the Summit Alpine Nursery, most of the important buildings, including the tiny church, formed a defensive huddle around the circular Green.
Here stood the large house and veterinary practice run by Caro Ferris’s parents, Lottie Ross’s general shop and the Hut, a half-brick, half-wooden hall, renovated more than twenty years before by Baz Salcombe in a fit of philanthropy.
Judy steered the car past the deserted bus shelter where, twice a day at an inconvenient hour, the Middlemoss bus stopped before returning whence it came, and turned between the lichen-scabbed stone gateposts of Sweetwell – and I saw at once that a large sign reading ‘Carlyle’s Garden Antiques’ had replaced the ‘Debo’s Desperate Dogs’ one.
I spotted that a moment later, half-concealed in the shrubbery by the turn-off to the Lodge. Unfortunately, the sign was the only thing that was concealed, for ramshackle kennels and rusty wire pens ran right up to the edge of the drive and the sound of barking, which had been increasingly audible as we approached the Green, now became deafening.
‘Good heavens!’ I exclaimed. ‘Things have expanded a bit since I was last home. How many dogs have you got now?’
‘Nearly forty at the last count,’ she admitted. ‘Debo can’t seem to say no.’
The cottage, a low honey-coloured building with windows set under the eaves, looked just the same. The deep scarlet door was flung open as we got out and the tall, slender and elegant figure of Debo, clad in jeans and wellies, was swept out on a wave of Desperate Dogs.
‘Darling!’ she cried, tripping over a rat-tailed mongrel and practically falling into my arms. ‘Welcome home!’
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About the Author
Trisha Ashley was born in St Helens, Lancashire, and gave up her fascinating but time-consuming hobbies of house-moving and divorce a few years ago in order to settle in North Wales. She is a Sunday Times bestselling author.
For more information about Trisha please visit www.trishaashley.com, her Facebook fan page (Trisha Ashley Books) or her Twitter account @trishaashley.
Also by Trisha Ashley
Sowing Secrets
A Winter’s Tale
Wedding Tiers
Chocolate Wishes
Twelve Days of Christmas
The Magic of Christmas
Chocolate Shoes and Wedding Blues
Good Husband Material
Wish Upon a Star
Every Woman For Herself
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