by Alex Brown
‘But what about Edie? Your aunt needs you, April, you can’t just leave her to muddle through on her own.’
‘Um, er … well, I wasn’t going to just leave her to it, I’ll make arrangements before I return … but she’s very independent you know,’ April replied, wondering what this was really about. It sounded as if Nancy was trying to be strong, to get rid of her, make her redundant. ‘But what about home, and you and Freddie …?’ And the neediness that had crept up on April over the last few months, but had then seemed to diminish since arriving in Tindledale, made a hasty return.
‘April, the house is spotless, Freddie is fine. I’m fine. Please, stay a bit longer – a couple of weeks if you have to. More. It’s fine, honestly.’
‘But I can’t just do that!’ April said, her mind racing at the possibility. And she felt thrown, not having even considered it an option.
‘Why not? You can do whatever you like … you’re a free agent now.’ An awkward silence followed. ‘Sorry.’ More silence. ‘I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just that you can’t—’ Nancy stopped talking.
‘Go on darling …’ April coaxed kindly, used to Nancy’s bluntness, but keen to find out what was on her stepdaughter’s mind.
‘I want you to be happy …’
‘I am happy, sweetheart, honestly, please don’t worry about me.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure,’ April said, figuring a little exaggeration wouldn’t hurt, and she sensed that Nancy needed to know that she was OK. And right now, sitting in the café drinking hot chocolate and eating cake, April did feel happy. Maybe that was the key to moving on with her life – moment by moment, until all the moments joined together.
‘So no more sitting in night after night watching your wedding video?’
‘I can’t promise that I won’t ever watch it again, but getting out of the house to come here has made a big difference.’
‘That’s settled then. You’ll stay for a bit.’
‘Oh, um … but what about clothes? I brought some extra things just in case, but not enough for a few weeks …’ April knew she was stalling. Her aunt had a washing machine. And Tindledale wasn’t like Basingstoke, where her friends rotated outfits so they wore a different one each day of the week for fear of appearing to have not made an effort. No, here in Tindledale they didn’t seem bothered by all that and wore a uniform of jeans, T-shirts and wellies. April had remembered to throw her wellies in the boot of the Beetle so she really had everything she needed for an extended stay. And she could always pop into the gorgeous-looking vintage dress shop that she could see through the window, over the road. Yes, she fancied that, it would cheer her up and do her good to get some new clothes. Perhaps a lovely 1930s floral tea dress, like the one Winnie was wearing in the picture on the sideboard.
‘Look, why don’t you give this dairy farmer guy a call and see if he can help out with the garden and I’ll come down soon, in a couple of weeks if I can and bring you some more clothes? What do you say?’ More silence followed. ‘And it will give you a chance to find out more about your great aunt Winnie. I’m intrigued to know what happened to her, aren’t you?’
‘Well, yes … I really am, she looks so lovely in the picture, and very brave in her uniform. But are you sure?’ April asked, wondering if Nancy really would be OK for a while. ‘Do you promise to pop to Tindledale soon?’ At least then they could have a heart-to-heart and Nancy might open up.
‘I promise. Plus I want to see if you’ve managed to keep your birthday roses alive!’ Nancy laughed.
‘Of course I have, cheeky!’ April relaxed a little. ‘Although if I’m going to stay on for a bit then I really should plant them in the Orchard Cottage garden – if I can find a space … you wait until you see the state of it!’
‘Ahh, I’m sure there’ll be a nice spot somewhere. So you’re definitely staying then?’
‘Hmm, but what about Freddie?’
‘I’ll look after him. I’m going now, April. You’re staying in Tindledale and that’s the end of it! Give me a call when you’re next up in the High Street having cake, and text me the number of the landline at Orchard Cottage and I’ll call in a day or so to see how you are and find out what you’ve managed to discover about your aunt Winnie. In fact, Miss Marple, that’s what I’m going to call you from now on. Byeeeeee …’ April could hear Nancy laughing before she hung up.
Stirring the hot chocolate with one hand, while using the other to deliver delicious Battenberg cake to her mouth, April pondered on the phone call. Maybe the twins would be OK without her for a while and it would be good to get her aunt’s garden sorted out, not to mention having a chat to Edie’s GP to see if there might be some help available for her – someone to call in and check on her, a home help or something for when April eventually returned home. And to be honest, April did feel different here in Tindledale. Somehow it was easier here being away from home and all the memories there, like the sight of Gray’s shirts in the wardrobe every morning – which reminded her, it really was time to pack them up and see about giving them to a charity shop. Yes, being in Tindledale gave April a different perspective. Maybe it was time. Time to let the twins grow up. April knew deep down that they could manage, they didn’t need her like they had at the start of her relationship with Gray. Whereas Aunt Edie did need her, if only to clean her Aga and fetch the eggs from the hen house.
So, feeling like she had reached a milestone of some kind, April finished up her truly scrumptious cake and hot chocolate treat and paid Kitty for a box of eight macaroons, one in each flavour. Then she left The Spotted Pig café to make her way back to Orchard Cottage where she was looking forward to making a night of it with her great aunt Edie – they would drink snowballs and eat macaroons while they played a few rounds of rummy, and it would be just like the old days. April almost had a spring in her step as she walked along Tindledale High Street towards the Beetle.
But what was that?
April couldn’t believe her eyes.
And her mouth actually dropped open because around the wheels of her car on the tarmac was a white painted box. April hurried over the cobbled pavement and saw to her dismay that a sign had been erected too. Admittedly a makeshift one, but still, Mrs Pocket was obviously a woman of influence in the local community as the handwritten notice covered in polythene and drawing-pinned to a wooden post read:
PARKING FOR DISABLED BADGE
HOLDERS ONLY
Well, April didn’t know whether to cry or laugh out loud at this, quite frankly, absurd eccentricity of rural, country life.
*
Matt pushed his hands further into his jean pockets as he reached the end of the High Street and walked across the village green. He’d finished work for the day, shoeing a couple of stud horses over on the Blackwood Farm Estate – they always took the best part of a morning, needing special care and expert handling or they would get skittish and inclined to rear up. And now he could really do with a nice pint and a ploughman’s lunch in the Duck & Puddle pub.
But April Lovell was going to think he was a right rude bugger now. Why had he blanked her like that, when she had waved and smiled from the window of the café? He felt like an overgrown schoolboy and it was doing his head in. His marriage had been a disaster, and though it had been over years ago, and he’d had a few girlfriends since, he still felt inclined to steer clear of getting involved with someone new. In his experience, having a love life only led to problems … and it wasn’t just about him any more. Plus, he knew nothing about April. She wasn’t the young girl he had rolled around in the buttercup field with all those years ago. Definitely not. She could be happily married with a load of kids and a husband in tow and he’d make a fool of himself. No, he wasn’t going there.
Matt pushed open the door of the pub and went through to the snug and over to his usual spot at the end of the bar.
‘You all right, mate?’ Cher, the landlady, asked from behind the bar.
; ‘Yeah, been better. How are you?’
‘Good thanks,’ Cher smiled, going to retrieve Matt’s silver tankard from behind the bar. ‘Your usual?’ He nodded. ‘What’s up?’ Cher asked as she flicked the beer tap up and tilted the tankard to pull the perfect pint. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’
‘Hmm, something like that …’ Matt replied, reaching for his wallet, thinking Cher had inadvertently hit the nail on the proverbial head. April Lovell was a ghost from his past, a lovely, happy reminder of a time in his life when everything was so straightforward, fun and easy. Shame it couldn’t always be like that …
When April arrived back at Orchard Cottage, Aunt Edie wasn’t home – most likely still foxtrotting herself around the village hall with the general – so April fetched her wellies from the boot of the Beetle and waded through the long grass towards the rickety old ramshackle shed in the far corner of the garden in search of gardening gloves and secateurs. And if she was really lucky, a lawnmower would most definitely come in handy. Now that her mind was made up – she was staying in Tindledale for the foreseeable future – there was no time like the present to get cracking, and whip this garden into shape.
As she reached the shed, April spotted a weather-worn wooden stile to her left, almost concealed by a large overhanging tree, an abundance of bramble bushes and some fierce-looking stinging nettles. Intriguing. So, after managing to find some rusty shears and a pair of old, cobweb-covered gloves behind a big, old-fashioned, cumbersome bicycle that was so rusty it looked as if it had been in the shed since the war, she decided to explore. Leaving the shears underneath the bottom wooden step, April brushed off the cobwebs and pulled on the gloves, slipped her sleeves down to protect her arms from the nettles and stepped up and over the stile.
And … wow!
A shard of sunshine bathed the view before her, making the air hazy and giving the field an almost magical, fairytale feel. It was so vibrant, April had to shield her eyes with a raised hand. Stretched out before her was an undulating orchard reaching as far as she could see. Overgrown, the trunks of the trees gnarled and with branches nearly touching the ground where they were so laden with fruit, but still … just glorious. And quite unlike the much smaller orchard that April remembered playing in as a child on the other side of the house. This one had rows and rows of apple trees that had been left to nature with some old dried-out stumps dotted around with broken branches strewn on the ground, the bark of which was near white from exposure to the sun. April felt as though she had stepped back in time as the orchard must have been here for over a hundred years, most likely longer given the age of the trees – the stump of the nearest one had at least a trillion rings it seemed, one for every year of its age. There was an etherealness in the orchard, spiritual almost, evoking the ghosts of apple pickers past perhaps, but not scarily so … no, the field felt pleasant, happy and welcoming, restorative even. A place of secrets too, sown over years and years and years – April imagined her aunt as a child with her sister Winnie, and brothers Sidney and Robert, running in and out of the trees, scrumping apples – relatives before them also. Perhaps Edie’s parents, George and Delphine, had come here when they were courting. April remembered years ago her dad mentioning them and had thought that her great grandmother’s name sounded very romantic indeed, French and chic. She’d love to know how Delphine met George, as it wasn’t every day that a French woman came to be living in Tindledale, a tiny, traditional English village. George and Delphine could have wandered through the orchard together, holding hands and whispering words of love, swapping secrets … April took a moment to daydream, letting her mind drift to a simpler time when life was so much easier, or so she liked to think.
But if the orchard hadn’t been touched in so long, how come then that the grass was so short? Surely it should be as long as the grass in Edie’s garden. Knee-high at least. April walked on over to the still fertile part of the orchard, and down the middle, in between an aisle of apple trees, trying to avoid stepping on the fallen fruit on the ground, but it was impossible, there were big, rosy-red ripe apples everywhere. April wondered if she dare try one and crouched down to take a better look.
After searching through a pile at her feet, she selected the best-looking apple and polished it on the knee of her jeans, figuring a little bit of the soil’s earthiness wouldn’t hurt. This was an apple fallen straight from the tree – not picked, packaged and packed off to a supermarket, having most likely been sprayed with pesticide too, like the ones she was used to eating. April was just about to take a bite when she heard a noise. A rustling at the end of the row. She jumped up and threw the apple back on the ground.
Was there someone here?
She looked around, before walking as fast as she could, almost jogging now to the end of the row, but nothing. Then the noise again. April stood stock still. There it was again. Sort of like a swooshing noise. Low and calm. Breezy and melodic. Wind perhaps, whistling through the trees. And for some unknown reason, April held an index finger up in the air – she had seen her dad do it as a child when checking the weather before loading up the car with a picnic for a day out, and well … the habit had somehow stuck. But no, it wasn’t windy, quite the opposite in fact, it was a lovely, sunny clear day with a perfect blue cloudless sky. Maybe April had imagined the noise, it was entirely possible as shortly after Gray had died she had gone through a phase of thinking that she heard him moving around the house, his footsteps on the stairs, the familiar sounds he made.
April pushed her hair off her face and put her hands on her hips. Then, after surveying the field, she turned to her right and walked up the next row of trees, pleasantly surprised to see pears this time. Plump green pears hanging like fat droplets ready to spill on to the ground at any moment.
And then she saw the sheep.
Ahh, well that explained the length of the grass. Five exceedingly woolly sheep, their bottoms covered in mud – or perhaps, she wrinkled her nose, it was poo – were busy mooching in between the trees, scoffing the grass and snaffling the abandoned fruit. April smiled as she stood and watched the sheep, fascinated, and enjoyed being so close to them, not something that had ever happened back home in Basingstoke. There, the closest she had been to an actual sheep was waiting to be served a slice from the leg of lamb at the Sunday roast carvery in the local Toby Inn. And on that thought, April now felt quite guilty; standing here watching the sheep minding their own business in this idyllic and peaceful location put an entirely different perspective on the prospect of a lovely Sunday roast lunch. And when one of the sheep turned to give her an inquisitive look, its cute white face studying her intently, April was almost certain she could go without ever eating lamb again.
About to head back to the cottage, April heard the swooshing noise again and knew this time that she definitely wasn’t mistaken as three more of the sheep stopped chewing and cocked their little woolly heads over in the direction it came from. Determined, April ran towards the noise, down the next row of pear trees until she reached the end. She spotted something in the corner of her eye, a flash of green, or was it navy? It was hard to tell with the sunlight dazzling in her eyes. Whatever it was darted in between two of the plumpest trees. April couldn’t be sure, it might be a trick of the light, but it really looked like a person, but before she could get any closer something else caught her eye and she swivelled on her heel in the opposite direction.
And stopped.
Standing square in front of her against a tall, nettle-covered fence were two horses. One chestnut, the other a dappled grey and white. Both had their heads bowed, nuzzling as if to comfort each other. Their manes so matted and long they could barely see from under the hair. April took a step closer and then hesitated as the horses shied their heads away. After waiting a few seconds, she tried again and very slowly edged nearer to them. They kept still this time, heads bowed, and she saw that the chestnut horse had a nasty sore on her shin and was struggling to stand on it, intermittently lifting he
r hoof as if to ease the pain before setting it down, only to repeat the pattern all over again. Poor thing. April wondered what she could do. Both horses desperately needed a vet, as the other one had a series of large scabs across his back and down over his bottom. But who did they belong to? The orchard was still Edie’s, April knew that from her last visit here with Gray, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about seeing two neglected old horses, or indeed five sheep roaming free … or how overgrown and abandoned this field and the fruit trees were. Maybe the horses belonged to somebody else, a nearby stable perhaps, and they had somehow broken loose and wandered in here.
April picked up a couple of unbruised apples and tried to feed them to the horses while she pondered the best course of action, but neither of them would take the fruit, only sniffing and opening their mouths as if to try before backing away. No wonder their ribs were visible, the poor horses looked half starved; maybe they were wary, having eaten some of the rotten apples previously and now didn’t trust them, or perhaps they were nervous of her? April had read somewhere about how complex horses were when it came to trusting humans, so she silently backed away, vowing to get help for them right away.
Maybe Molly would know who the horses belonged to – after the disabled parking debacle, April wasn’t sure if she should just go ahead and call a vet without at least checking. The last thing she wanted to do as the newcomer to Tindledale was to step out of line and make a mistake again. Mrs Pocket was bound to have told all the locals about how she parked in the wrong place and they wouldn’t take kindly to her interfering if the horses belonged to one of the villagers. Vet bills were very expensive and the horses’ owner may not thank her for it. And as for the sheep, weren’t there special farming laws about livestock in the English countryside? Surely they weren’t allowed to roam whenever they liked, they must belong to someone too, a local farmer. Maybe they’d escaped from a nearby field as well. Perhaps the farmer, Pete, would know.
