And how effortlessly cool Poll looked in the flowing ethnic frock that owed nothing to the latest fashion fads and everything to comfort and individuality.
With those vivid beads and her wild hair and un-made-up face, Ella thought with a pang of envy, Poll was absolutely everything she aspired to be now she’d escaped the corporate rat race.
Ella held out her hand. ‘Hello, then. I’m Ella. Ella Maloney.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Still beaming broadly, Poll drifted across, and clutched both Ella’s hands in welcome. ‘Please excuse my appalling manners. How wonderful to meet you at last after all our letters. And how young and pretty you are! I’m just a little confused because you’ll never believe what’s happened this morning and – oh, please mind the – ah, too late…’
A power-burst of dogs, cats, two hens and one small boy clutching a muddy bucket exploded from the open door behind Poll and poured down the steps.
‘Oh –’ Ella smiled in delight at the gorgeous blond boy ‘– and is this George?’
‘Ooops – so sorry about the mud. Yes, this is George, my son. George, meet Ella.’
George, who Ella knew from Poll’s letters was a few months shy of his third birthday, smiled hugely and politely held out a tiny muddy hand.
Completely overwhelmed by maternal longings, Ella beamed back at George, the reason for her being at Hideaway, and shook his hand. Then, misty-eyed, she blinked over his head at Poll. ‘Oh, he’s an absolute poppet.’
George grinned some more, and gabbled something completely unintelligible.
Poll smiled. ‘He’s got his own language, I’m afraid. I understand him of course, but –’
‘And I’m sure, once we get to know each other, that I will too. Won’t I, George?’
George nodded, gabbled some more and hugged Ella. Oooh, bless him. Suddenly awash with love, she absolutely longed to pick him up and cuddle him.
Poll sighed happily. ‘Well, this seems to be a mutual admiration society, thank heavens. Oh, Lord, sorry about the animals.’
Ella found herself being sniffed and investigated from every conceivable angle. She patted and stroked in return, and hugged George again and didn’t care at all that he’d smeared the muddy bucket across her jeans and pale-green T-shirt.
This was all she’d ever wanted. Well, almost…
‘Oh dear… I’m so sorry.’ Poll looked distracted again. ‘This chaos really isn’t what I’d planned for your arrival. I got my dates muddled, you see, which means – well, you don’t want to know what it means, honestly.’
Ella continued patting and stroking. ‘We did say today, though, didn’t we? I haven’t got it wrong?’
‘Nooo.’ Poll ran an agitated hand through her frizzy hair. It stood on end. ‘It’s not you, it’s me. Oh, I’ll tell you all about it when you’ve settled in. I’m so sorry about the welcome. I’d planned it all so differently…’
‘It’s OK – honestly. I’m just delighted to be here.’
‘Are you? Really? Oh, I’m so pleased.’ Poll looked very relieved. ‘I do hope your journey wasn’t too awful.’
Ella smiled manfully as the hens eyed her sandalled toes with beady speculation. ‘The journey was fine once I’d left London and got the hang of the countryside, and your directions were great – although I did get lost at the end and had to ask directions at the Miracle Mart.’
‘Did you?’ Poll looked askance. ‘How awful! And did Mrs Webb – she runs the Mart – tell you where we are? I’m surprised if she did. She always thinks people are undercover reporters or the Home Office. Watches far too much television, poor dear.’
‘No, I didn’t see Mrs Webb – a couple of the villagers told me.’ Ella felt it was possibly best not to elaborate on the conversation.
‘Good.’ Poll looked relieved. ‘We always go into Hazy Hassocks for our shopping. We don’t go to the Miracle Mart if we can help it. We only use it in dire emergencies. Angel Meadows is a bit odd.’
‘Mmm, it was a bit strange. I didn’t even see a village.’
‘No, it’s more a hamlet, even smaller than Lovers Knot. Anyway, you’ll have plenty of time to explore the area once you’re settled in, won’t you?’
‘Hopefully, yes – oh, and this house is just beautiful.’
‘Thank you. Oh, let me rescue you.’ Poll hurried towards her, shooed at the cats and hens and attempted to remove the dogs and George. ‘We don’t get many visitors. They’re just a bit overexcited. We’ve been so looking forward to meeting you. I’m really sorry.’
‘Please don’t apologise any more, it’s all wonderful. I’ll just get my bags out of the boot, shall I?’
‘Yes, of course. My manners have completely deserted me along with the last of my brain cells. Oh, and yes, you can leave your car there, it’ll be quite safe. It’s a dead end – just barns and things. Let me give you a hand with your luggage, then I can show you your room and we can do the guided tour – or would you like a drink first? It’s very warm for May and you’ve had such a long journey and…’
‘Whatever is easiest for you.’ Ella was still valiantly admiring the rapidly drying mud in the bottom of George’s bucket as she flipped open the boot of the car and hauled out the first designer-tagged holdall. ‘A drink would be lovely, though. Maybe it would be better to get my stuff inside first? There isn’t very much.’
‘So I see. Just two bags,’ Poll sighed. ‘Aren’t you clever? I never seem to manage to travel light. Here, let me help you… Lovely. Now, in through the front door, along the passage and the stairs are straight ahead…’
They made their way, each hauling a holdall and hampered by several cats and dogs, and with George clinging to Ella’s hand and chattering non-stop in what sounded like a childish version of Esperanto, into the farmhouse’s gorgeous cool flagstoned darkness.
Poll pointed out the rooms as they passed.
‘This is my sitting room which we’ll be sharing from now on, and this one was originally a morning room I think, it doubles up as George’s playroom now, oh, and that’s the formal dining room – we haven’t made much use of it really although hopefully we will now – and those two rooms are sort of extra living rooms which will come in handy, and that’s a kind of study-cum-office that is rarely used because I tend to just pile stuff up on the hall table and…’
By the time they’d manoeuvred the twisting staircases to the third floor, with Ella making appreciative noises about each of the rooms, the huge wild flower arrangements, and Hideaway’s nubbly walls and ancient tiles and original wooden balusters, Poll seemed to have regained some sort of composure.
‘I know I’m sounding like an estate agent. I always babble when I’m nervous – and I am. Nervous. Very. If only Ash Lawrence hadn’t thrown me into a complete tizz this morning by phoning and telling me that I’d got my dates wrong.’
Ash Lawrence? Who was Ash Lawrence? Ella frowned. Had she already been told about Ash Lawrence in Poll’s avalanche of chatter? No, she didn’t think so. The ‘mad’ word was rearing its head again. It was probably best not to say anything.
Poll pushed open an oak-panelled door. ‘Here we are. This is your room. And George and I are just along the corridor. This floor was originally one huge attic but had already been converted into three double bedrooms when we moved in, so I just added the en suite in here, and a Jack and Jill bathroom between mine and George’s rooms. I do hope you’ll like it.’
‘Oh, wow!’ Momentarily forgetting all about wrong dates and Ash Lawrence and Poll’s general confusion, Ella dropped her holdall just inside the door of a vast and lovely pale blue and cream room. ‘It’s beautiful! Thank you so much – you’ve gone to so much trouble. I really appreciate it.’
Poll smiled. ‘I want you to feel at home. I want you to be happy. I want us to be able to live together without any problems at all. This venture is very important to me.’
Venture? Ella frowned again. She didn’t remember any mention of a venture in the advert or the subse
quent letters. ‘Er, and to me.’
‘Oh good. I’m so glad. Come down as soon as you’re ready and we’ll be able to have a proper chat over lunch about, er, everything.’
Ella nodded. ‘Thanks. I’d really like that. And sorry, but the house is so vast… Will I be able to find you?’
Poll corralled the dogs and cats and George in an untidy group. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Bottom of the stairs, straight across the passage, then third door on the right. Take your time – we don’t run to any sort of organised timetable at Hideaway, as you’ll soon discover.’
Ella grinned. ‘That sounds totally blissful. I’ve been so looking forward to not being stressed and always having to be somewhere or doing something at a set time. I don’t suppose you do a lot of clock-watching in the country?’
‘Er, no, not really.’ Poll paused in the doorway. ‘Although we might have to be a little less spontaneous from now on when – no. No, let’s leave that part of it for now.’
Ella, still slightly overwhelmed by the gorgeous room, the ditzy Poll, and the wonderful non-stop chattering George, smiled happily. ‘Oh, I know I’m not here on holiday. I know I’m here to work and I guess I’ll be pretty busy with nannying, oh, and hopefully some cooking…’
‘Cooking?’ Poll raised her eyebrows. ‘You enjoy cooking?’
‘I love it. Especially making puddings. Cooking’s my favourite thing in the whole world,’ Ella said, then cast a longing look at George. ‘Well, nearly…’
‘I love cooking too, especially big main courses, but the kitchen is at your disposal any time you want it,’ Poll chuckled. ‘It’s huge so we won’t get in each other’s way. Mind you, you might hate working in it. It’s very old-fashioned – I don’t have any modern gadgets at all.’
‘That’s not a problem for me. Most of my best puds are from my gran’s handed-down recipes, and I learned to cook them in her 1950s and definitely non-technical kitchen while she watched me like a hawk. It was like taking part in my absolutely favourite cookery programme only without the fear factor.’
‘Cookery programme? Fear factor?’ Poll frowned. ‘Masterchef ? Hell’s Kitchen? Come Dine With Me?’
‘Dewberrys’ Dinners.’
‘No way!’ Poll beamed. ‘That’s my favourite too! Oh, brilliant – we can watch it together.’
‘And laugh at the culinary disasters concocted by the contestants and squirm at the full-on carping between Gabby and Tom.’
‘For a married couple who are both Michelin-starred chefs, they’re truly awful to each other, aren’t they?’ Poll grinned. ‘I’m never sure if they’re going to manage to stay married until the end of each show. They seem to hate each other, don’t they? Do you think it’s all for the television audience’s benefits – or are they really that bitchy to one another?’
Ella shook her head. ‘No idea. Gabby really is an appalling woman, isn’t she? So harsh to the contestants and even more so to poor Tom. Reality telly with teeth and claws. Gabby and Tom make Simon Cowell look like Mother Teresa.’
‘Mmm. But what does that say about us, then? Tuning in in our gazillions to watch some poor saps fail miserably and a marriage disintegrate?’
‘Christians and lions for the twenty-first century,’ Ella agreed. ‘But very clever casting and a brilliant idea. I just think the contestants are really brave – inviting the whole crew and those two self-obsessed Michelin-starrers into their own homes, and then having to cook all those courses live with just their own things, no help at all – and then have to put up with all that criticism.’
‘It must be hell.’ Poll nodded. ‘But worth it in the end. Most of the previous winners have gone on to open their own restaurants, haven’t they? And they get all that prize money.’
‘Surely no amount of money would ever be enough to make up for the public humiliation of having your very best dishes trashed by those two ego maniacs?’ Ella shuddered. ‘Dewberrys’ Dinners is great to watch, but I’d never take part. Never in a million years. Nah, I’ll stick with experimenting with my gran’s recipes, and making my mistakes in private.’
Poll nodded fervently in agreement. ‘But we’ll still watch it, won’t we?’
‘Definitely. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Ella laughed. ‘Which makes us pretty two-faced, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does. Or maybe simply human? Whatever, I’m just thrilled to bits that you’re another fan. Now, I must sort out George’s lunch and let you finish your unpacking. Oh and –’ Poll scuffed at the floor with a sequinned flip-flopped toe ‘– there’s something else I need to talk to you about. My plans for Hideaway Farm. Oh dear, I knew I’d fluff this bit. It’s so tricky to explain, but you see, I’m afraid I wasn’t strictly honest in my advertisement…’
Chapter Four
Ella, her heart rapidly sinking, stopped smiling and stared at Poll. ‘Really? Um, how not strictly honest? Which bit of the advertisement wasn’t strictly true?’
‘Only a little bit,’ Poll said cheerfully. ‘And as long as Ash Lawrence doesn’t arrive too soon, I’ll explain it properly over lunch. We can have a lovely long chat then, and get to know all about one another. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise you.’
Hmmm, Ella thought darkly. In her experience, that phrase usually meant there was an awful lot to worry about indeed.
Was this brief rural dream all going to be way too good to be true? However much vetting the posh magazine had done, had Poll Andrews slipped through the net? And what exactly had Poll’s advert said?
Happy-go-lucky, honest, non-judgemental person who wants to change their life into the slow lane, required to help out with child-care in idyllic rural farmhouse in return for small remuneration. Car driver preferred. Must like animals. Own room and full board provided.
Fairly non-committal really, Ella thought now. And of course it had been the child-care followed by slow lane and idyllic rural farmhouse that had leaped out at her on that most stressful of city days. But what about the non-judgemental? What was that all about?
At the time she’d assumed that it meant someone liberal-thinking without any radical views to either left or right who wasn’t going to get involved in crusades of any sort – and this had more or less been confirmed by Poll in her letters.
More or less…
Ella frowned, her imagination whizzing into overdrive.
So, what if Poll Andrews and Hideaway Farm were just a cosy front for something far more sleazy? Hadn’t the Great Train Robbers holed up with their stash in some rural farm umpteen zillion years ago? What if Poll was part of a gang? Or a gangster’s moll? Or an internet fraudster? Or a drug baron? Or a money launderer?
What if… ?
Poll interrupted this manic runaway train of thoughts.
‘Oh, please don’t look so worried; it’s nothing awful, honestly. Look, let me get George downstairs and fed and watered while you unpack, then we’ll have lunch and talk things over and –’
George had galloped across to the window and was waving frantically.
‘Ooh, no!’ Poll groaned.
Ella frowned. ‘What’s the matter? Who’s George waving at?’
‘It’s a car turning off Cattle Drovers Passage,’ Poll said shortly. ‘George loves cars and lorries and buses. He waves at all of them. I hope it’s the plumber from Hazy Hassocks come to fix the kitchen tap at last, but I bet it’ll be Ash and Roy – oh, Lordy. Two more for lunch, and no time for us to discuss things…’
Bugger, Ella thought. She frowned again. She seemed to be doing a lot of frowning. ‘Who exactly is this Ash Lawrence? He seems to be causing you quite a lot of trouble.’
‘Oh, bless him. It’s not his fault. It’s all mine – I always seem to get things muddled. Ash is lovely. Really lovely. You’ll adore him. It’s just – I thought he was arriving on the fifteenth…’
‘Today’s the fifteenth.’
‘I know that now,’ Poll said testily, hurrying across the room and removing the still wa
ving George from the clutches of the sash window. ‘Ash told me that this morning on the phone when he said he was on his way. I was looking at the wrong month on the calendar. I’d kept it on the view of Derwentwater because it was so pretty.’
Ella nodded. From what she’d gathered about Poll so far, it sounded horribly plausible.
‘And,’ Poll continued, now giggling with a struggling George, ‘I thought Ash and Roy were moving in next week.’
‘Moving in? Here? Two of them? So he’s – they’re – going to be your lodgers, are they? Is Hideaway a B. & B.? Is that what you didn’t say and why you need to employ me to look after George?’
‘Sort of,’ Poll said evasively as George and his coterie of animals scampered off downstairs. ‘It’s very sad. Ash and Roy lost their previous home, poor things. Oh, but you won’t believe how divine Ash is. Late twenties, absolutely gorgeous looking, and he’s a chef. Or he was – although he’s looking for another post now of course. His accommodation went with his job, but the restaurant owner didn’t take to Roy, Ash’s companion – clearly a nasty case of homophobia – and Ash was given notice to quit.’
‘Oh dear,’ Ella said. ‘That sounds very unfair. But there must have been some really good reason or else this Ash could have sued for wrongful dismissal, couldn’t he? You can’t just sack people because of their sexual preferences, can you? So, is he a friend of yours? Is that why you’ve offered him a home?’
‘No, not really. It’s a bit more complicated than that.’
Ella, already in brain-meltdown and deciding that Poll’s explanation about just how complicated would definitely make things even more convoluted, didn’t ask. ‘And what about, er, the unsuitable boyfriend? Roy? Is he a chef too? What’s he like?’
‘No idea,’ Poll said cheerfully. ‘But he’s not a chef. I’ve got the idea he’s an older man and I think Ash said he does something with pylons.’
The Way to a Woman's Heart Page 2
