"Are you still there?"
"Sorry Ryan, I'm wallowing a bit today. I'm so glad you're back, I've missed you. I'm guessing you had a good time?"
Of course, I didn't just lose my husband; I also lost my lifelong friend, Eve. Mistress Rat, as I now refer to her. A sob catches in my throat as I try to wind down my wayward thoughts and concentrate on Ryan's dialogue about his fabulous trip to Dubai.
"…and I'm going to plan another visit, meet up with a few of the group again next year. First time ever I didn't want to board the plane and fly home. You know me, I usually get bored after two weeks and pine for my home comforts, but it was amazing. Anyway, enough about me, how are you doing?"
I'm back in the moment, mind clear as a bell, but the motorway traffic is heavy and I'm following the satnav on a route I don't know. It's bumper to bumper and I'm trying to change lanes, indicating and easing forward gently. The driver in the car parallel to me is doing everything he can to keep me out.
"Ryan, I hate to cut you short, but it's really bad timing. I'm in a huge snarl-up on the M4/M5 interchange and the satnav is telling me I'm in the wrong lane. A bit stressed at the moment – can I call you when I get home? A lot has happened since you left and I'd appreciate your input. I'm off to measure up my new home for blinds."
"You found somewhere! Awesome! Well done, Maddie. Has there been any communication from Mistress Rat or Cheating Ex?"
"No, and yes…eek! Sorry, have to go, promise I'll ring you later."
As I bring our call to a premature halt, the guy to my right edges forward another few inches. Now I'm in an impossible situation, half-slewed across two lanes. The traffic ahead of me is starting to move off and the car behind me honks impatiently, but there's nowhere I can go. There isn't enough room to reverse and continue in this lane and Mr Nasty looks as if he'd rather cause an accident than let me in.
"In one hundred yards keep to the right," the satnav goddess reminds me for the fourth time. If I can't get into the right-hand lane now then it will be too late and I'll end up travelling to London instead of Wales.
"I know, I know! Tell Mr Nasty," I mutter. I glance across at his stony face in the hope that he'll graciously give way, but he's obviously seen my lips moving and thinks I'm talking at him. He gives me a hand gesture that is less than gentlemanly, probably assuming a lot of the dialogue consists of swear words.
"In one hundred yards, keep to the right."
"Oh, shut up!" I wail, as someone else starts honking repeatedly. There's a gap that could fit a dozen cars ahead of me and the front of my car is directly in line with the mid-section of Mr Nasty's BMW. Now he's ignoring me and my face starts to flame. The idiot is refusing to move, even though there's a big enough gap for him to pull forward and for me to tuck in nicely. I glance apologetically at the very patient man in the car behind him, who is holding back ready for me to filter in when the BMW finally decides to pull away. I nod my head in grateful appreciation. Chivalry isn't completely dead.
Honk, honk, honk.
"In one hundred yards keep right."
Mr Nasty glances my way and he actually has a smirk on his face. Right! That's it. My nearside front wing is still a few feet away from his car and I slip into first gear and edge forward another foot. I hold my breath, wondering how close I'm prepared to go. If I hit him, how much damage can you do at, oh, all of two miles per hour?
His jaw drops and he looks at me with fear in his eyes, as it dawns on him that he's decided to tango with the wrong woman. Instead of slowly rolling forward he stops completely, allowing the growing gap in front of him to widen even further. I veer the steering wheel to the left and cruise past the front of his car, slipping neatly into the gap, but ensuring I clear the front of his car by a mere whisper.
"Now who's smirking?" I throw the words at him over my shoulder. Well, he deserved that. Suddenly, he puts his foot down and swerves across behind me, and our positions are reversed. He's now alongside me in the inside lane. He winds down his window for a few seconds, shouts out, "Scary lady, are you insane?" and then floors the accelerator. He speeds off, taking advantage of the huge gap that has opened up while we've been dancing around on the motorway.
I'm speechless. He was in the wrong lane all along! As our respective traffic lines peel off in opposite directions, a big smile crosses my face. I pick up speed thinking, hey, I'm a scary lady and maybe it's about time I started asserting myself… it might be rather fun!
When I pull up in the driveway leading down to Ash Cottage, the estate agent who comes to greet me isn't Sarah but a colleague. He's very smartly dressed, but looks almost too young to be anyone's employee. He extends his hand as he introduces himself and I reach out to clasp it and shake, only to feel mortified as my firm grip meets no resistance at all. Goodness gracious, young man, you need to work on that. I keep my thoughts to myself and give him a bright smile.
"I only need to take a few measurements, Connor," I explain, fearful he might burst into tears after the assault on his hand.
"I'll…um…sort out the key, then," he mumbles, digging deep into his jacket pocket. I follow him down the winding path as we head towards the front of the cottage, when suddenly a loud, "Hello" makes us both stop in our tracks. Spinning around, I see a guy in his late fifties, sporting a mass of unruly grey hair, ambling towards us with a big grin on his face.
"So glad to have caught you," he remarks, jovially. "I'm Terence Darby. My wife, Joanna, and I live in Bay Tree Barn – the one at the end of the track," he points his finger along the overgrown lane that runs high up behind Ash Cottage.
"Great to meet you, Terence, I'm Maddie Brooks. This is Connor from Cooper and Tate Estate Agents. I've come to measure up."
Terence steps forward and we shake hands, his firm grip reassuring me that I wasn't being over-zealous earlier. I notice that Connor stands well back, no doubt still nursing a sore hand.
"It's going to be lovely having a neighbour again," Terence replies. He's obviously a seasoned walker, his boots have that lived-in look and his stout walking stick has probably fended off many a bramble.
"I had hoped to be in by now, but there have been several delays." I shoot a glance at Connor, who is engrossed in scraping his shoe against a small mound of long grass. He swipes it several times to remove the dust from the lane. Even if he was listening, I think it's unlikely he'd know what was happening anyway, but it was worth a try.
"Ah," Terence shakes his head. "I can only imagine what it's like today with all the paperwork. We've been here for nearly thirty years and the house before that was our first. We do miss Aggie, she was a lovely lady."
I realise that Connor is waiting impatiently, his shoe-scuffing has stopped and he's now sorting through a handful of keys, with purpose. Terence and I exchange glances, his eyes twinkling and a little smirk lifts his lip as he tries his best not to laugh.
"Well, lovely to meet you, Terence, and fingers crossed that Ash Cottage won't remain empty for much longer."
Terence gives a little salute, a brief nod to Connor, who is still head-down and totally oblivious and he walks off down the lane whistling.
"Nice chap," I say out aloud, as I crane my neck to see if I can spot the barn. The track has a turn in it and already Terence is out of sight.
"Is this the only entrance to Bay Tree Barn?" I enquire, assuming Connor will at least have some knowledge of this property.
He shrugs his shoulders, "I don't know". With that, he turns on his heels and heads off back down the path, still sorting through his handful of keys.
"Are they all for Ash Cottage?" I ask, rather surprised there are so many. When Sarah showed me around I'm sure she only had a small ring of keys in her hand.
"Well, I thought they were." He begins trying each one in turn, picking out a few that obviously won't fit and putting them back into his jacket pocket. Several look as if they belong to outbuildings and one is quite primitive, made out of cast iron. He's becoming rather frustrated and the colour is
rising in his cheeks, so I wander off to give him space and begin looking around the garden. However, it's hard not to simply stand and admire the view, though I'm also excited to explore. I remember the wooden shed that stands halfway down the sloping garden, raised on a semicircular patio area and with an old wooden bench running alongside it. The view from the bench is at a different angle to the view you get from the house and on a bright, warm, autumnal day like today it's a little sun trap.
The colour of the trees now has an orangey hue, the breeze carrying a few leaves here and there as it teases them from the branches. In a week or two they will be falling by the sackful and it dawns on me that this garden is going to be quite labour-intensive. But the stunning vista is mesmerising, and I'm actually looking forward to the hours I'll be spending taming this garden and getting it back into some semblance of order.
"It's no good," Connor calls over his shoulder. "None of these keys fit. Seems I might have picked up the wrong ones from the cabinet. The problem is," he looks at me with unease, "I'm due at my next viewing in twenty-five minutes. I don't have time to drive back to the office to pick them up."
While I do feel sorry for him, I also feel exasperated. "It's taken me over an hour to get here. Can you ring the office and see if someone else could pop out with them? I don't mind waiting – now that I'm here."
He seems annoyed, as if I created the problem and am being unreasonable expecting him to sort it out.
"It might be better if you make an appointment for another day," he replies, drily, fixing me with a stare. A flash of anger finds me struggling to hold back the first retort that pops into my head. Instead, I take a deep breath and speak slowly, but distinctly.
"I think it might be even better if you ring the office now and have the conversation, so that you aren't late getting off to your next viewing."
Connor looks at me, surprised by the forcefulness of my words and heads off back to his car, mumbling something totally incoherent as he brushes past me.
I wander down to the bench by the shed, fighting my way through one of the overgrown pathways that traverse the garden. A large fuchsia bush is covered in deep, double pink heads, the branches hanging low overhead causing me to duck. On the other side a climbing rose has suckers extending three feet and making it almost impossible to squeeze through without getting snagged. However, I persevere and take the final steps down to the bench. I was right, the view from here is completely different and it feels protected, despite being very open. With the terraced garden rising high above it to the rear, the sloping grassy bank falling away below it and a high hedge to the side, it sits in a hollow.
The sun is warm on my face and I close my eyes for a second, taking in the peacefulness of the setting. All you can hear are the birds and the odd ripple of leaves caught in the breeze. A crack in the overhanging branches of a hazelnut tree, about five feet away, announces the appearance of a young, grey squirrel. He jumps with ease across to a large branch on a neighbouring ash tree. It isn't until this moment that I scan around and really take note of the trees. The variety is amazing; however ash seems to grow particularly well here and is a fitting winner for the aptly named cottage.
"Mrs Brooks!" Connor's agitated voice calls out – a few seconds later he emerges from one of the overgrown pathways.
"I'm here and it's Miss Brooks," I reply, trying hard not to over-react to his faux pas.
He approaches the bench, inspecting the arm of his jacket as he walks.
"I think that rose has pulled a thread," he utters, sounding really fed up and choosing to ignore my comment.
"Poor you," I reply, dourly. "What did the office say?"
"There's no one available. You'll have to ring in to arrange another appointment and I'm going to have to shoot off now." He looks at his watch impatiently and that makes me really cross. I make no attempt to move, despite the meaningful glance he throws my way.
"So, I've driven all this way and I can't get access to the cottage today?"
He at least has the good grace to look a touch embarrassed, but I realise there's absolutely no point in making a fuss.
"Well, just so my journey isn't a complete waste of my time, is it okay if I take ten minutes to look around the garden?"
My request clearly presents him with a new dilemma. He's torn between having to think through the implications of leaving me here to my own devices and, after yet another flick of his wrist to check the time, being late for his next appointment.
"Well…I suppose it will be all right." He looks at me as if appraising whether or not I can be trusted.
"I am in the process of buying the property and contracts have already been exchanged." I throw this in, not to reassure him, but to remind him I'm not some total stranger who is here merely to nose around.
He nods and without another word begins his retreat back through the undergrowth.
"An apology would have been nice," I pipe up, "or a goodbye…" hoping my words will carry and perhaps remind him of common courtesy, let alone good manners.
I wait until I hear his car pull away and then venture down to locate the boundary at the bottom of the garden. The grass is on such a steep slope that it's not easy to walk down without slipping. Thankfully, I manage it without mishap and discover two crowns of rhubarb hidden among a border that also holds a beautiful mock orange blossom shrub. Everything is leggy and overgrown, sadly neglected over the past few years by the looks of it. Behind this is a hedge that runs along the bottom. The other side abuts a large grassy area, belonging to a cottage that is almost completely obscured by trees. Well, it's private, that's for sure.
Making my way slowly back up the grassy bank, I notice that the two large apple trees are badly in need of pruning. Hidden in the branches is a telegraph wire that is almost low enough to touch. Aside from that, the garden needs a lot of weeding and a tidy to take away the debris that has built up over a number of years. However, it is packed full of a whole variety of plants, trees and shrubs. It's enchanting, and a little thrill courses through me. This is going to be my garden very, very soon.
I discover a different pathway to take me back up to the top level that isn't quite so overgrown. Thankfully, it doesn't have any thorny branches to contend with. As I emerge, directly in front of me is the garden room. It's still full of old furniture, although I'm sure it will be emptied before I take possession. It was used as a piano room and that, too, is built into the slope of the hill. Either side of it are storage rooms hewn into the rock face. Both are rather dank and full of cobwebs, but they will be useful. To the left stands the oil tank for the central heating and I'm dismayed to spot a small pool of oil on the floor. A little investigation is enough to confirm that the pipe going into the tank appears to have been vandalised. Well, maybe today hasn't been a total waste after all. If I hadn't spotted this it would have been a nightmare moving in to discover the tank was empty. I make my way back to the car to ring Cooper and Tate, thankful that this is one problem I'm not going to have to sort out on moving day.
LEWIS
CHAPTER 3
"Can I speak to Sarah Manning, please, it's urgent?"
"Who's calling?"
"Lewis Hart."
"Hold the line, I'm putting you through."
Clearly, Sarah isn't there. It switches straight to her answerphone and I'm in no mood to leave a message. I'm so angry, my hands are shaking. As if the long drive home wasn't bad enough, when I passed Ash Cottage there wasn't just a For Sale sign outside, but it was almost obliterated by a Sold banner. Now I know what they mean when they say a red mist can descend out of nowhere.
I slam down the phone, desperately trying to regain control of my anger. I can't remember the last time I lost it – the feeling isn't a welcome one and reminds me of my youth. I simply can't believe that Sarah has sold Ash Cottage to someone else.
I try to straighten out my thoughts. The last couple of weeks have been a nightmare; planning a funeral messes with your head and I thought
I'd made it clear I had every intention of buying Ash Cottage once it was on the market. Heck, I rang Sarah and left a message!
It dawns on me that I haven't checked my own messages for a while and, sure enough, the flashing icon tells me that was a mistake. There are two messages and they are both from Sarah. I let out a sigh, unable to stop myself from shaking my head at my own stupidity.
"Hello, Lewis, I'm ringing to let you know that Ash Cottage is officially on the market. I have no idea if your situation has changed and whether you are still interested, given recent events. I was sorry to hear the news about your mother, such an awful time for you. I'll await your call."
Damn! That must have crossed with the message I left her. What did I say? My mind tries to replay the phone call, but there was so much going on at the time. Maybe I only asked her to call me back. I meant to give her permission to match the asking price once the bank pressed the 'go' button. I listen to the second message.
"Lewis, I'm returning your call as requested. I don't know what you were going to say to me … um … oh, I hope this isn't going to be bad news for you. Ash Cottage is sold. If it makes you feel any better, an offer was made on it before I received the message to ring you. When we finally received the instruction to market it, there wasn't anything I could do without confirmation that the sale price was acceptable to you. I'm honour-bound to forward every offer that is made in a timely fashion, once a property is officially up for sale. This purchaser happened to be in the right place at the right time. Let me know when you are back and I'm sorry if your plans haven't changed, but there was nothing I could do."
It's not Sarah's fault, it's mine. I understand her situation. For me nothing has changed, but she wasn't to know that. This is a bitter blow I'm going to find very hard to accept. In my head Ash Cottage was already mine and I can't believe some stranger has stepped in to snatch it away from me.
A Cottage in the Country Page 2
