I walked on, feeling thoroughly unsettled, both by having come face to face for the first time with someone actually related to me, but more particularly by his attitude. He seemed to have a grudge against Ned, that was for sure, and now that I had, in his eyes, taken his job, that appeared to extend to me, too.
The road rounded a bend and I could see the rest of the village, a couple of shops of some kind, cottages, and what looked like guesthouses, but I decided to look at those on the way back.
To my right, the valley quickly narrowed into what was practically a ravine and it was a long, long drop to the river. At first I caught occasional glimpses of it through gaps in the trees, but it was soon hidden.
As the gradient of the hill grew ever steeper, the last cottages slowly petered out, until I came to a point where a farm track led off to my right, with a sign for Angel Row and Spout Farm, so I knew I must be above the falls, near the top turnstile.
The well-made road through the village now quite suddenly turned into a rougher-surfaced single track one, snaking sharply up into dark woodland.
I examined a thicket of signs on the other side of the road, which were clearly intended to discourage any adventurous or unwary motorists from attempting to get to Thorstane that way. They proclaimed:
Single track road
Steep hill
Hairpin bends
Beware falling rocks!
Unsuitable for large vehicles
If that didn’t put them off, the immediate deterioration in the road surface and a severe pocking of potholes probably would.
According to the signpost, Thorstane was amazingly close … or it was if you were a crow. Then I remembered the map and the way the lane to Jericho’s End by which I’d arrived had formed a narrow V with the main one up to Thorstane, so the top of the village couldn’t be that far from the outskirts.
As I stood there, a young rabbit skittered out of the bushes and, on seeing me, ran back again, and distant wood pigeons started up their throaty, repetitive song.
The light was now fading and the occasional large splodge of cold rain hit my head, or smartly slapped a leaf. Time to return, though now on the side of civilization, even if it did seem to be precariously clinging to a rock face.
Then it occurred to me that the houses had most probably been built with stone hacked out of that very rock face, which is why they looked as if they’d grown there.
There were little rows of terraced cottages, interspersed with foursquare detached houses, like the ones in a child’s picture book. Several had the shut-up look of out-of-season holiday lets and, as I got further down, I came to a couple of more substantial Victorian or Edwardian guesthouses, also closed, and a row of three shops in what the sign proclaimed to be The Old Stables.
The art and craft gallery wasn’t open, and the paintings in the window were not of Myfy’s calibre, but the type of views that can only be described as competent wallpaper.
Next to it was a small gift shop, where there were actually customers – a youngish couple and a little girl, who seemed to be selecting a pair of fairy wings from a display.
In fact, the whole shop was awash with angel- and fairy-inspired souvenirs and gifts of every conceivable type, and some I never would have thought of. On the whole, the fairies seemed to be winning out over the angels.
I wandered down the display of fairy figurines, picked up a fat little hardback book from a stack on a shelf and found it was the one Myfy had told me about that her sister had written. Embossed on the cover were the words:
A Short History of the Village of Jericho’s End
Elfrida Price-Jones
I flicked through it, finding a whole section of fascinating old black-and-white photographs of the village, the falls and local characters. The list of contents looked interesting, too, so I bought it … and then, at the till, succumbed to an impulse buy: one of those small crystal stars, made to hang in a window and cast a rainbow prism over your world. A lucky star.
The last shop in the row and the largest was the village store, Toller’s, set out like a mini-supermarket and selling a wide range of goods, from a well-stocked deli counter to a good selection of fresh fruit and vegetables, cakes, bread, sandwiches and hot pasties and pies … except that this late in the day, the locusts had already cleaned the place out and the cabinets had been cleaned, ready for tomorrow. It obviously catered for everyone: staples for the villagers, food for hungry hikers, snacks and drinks for the daytrippers and more exotic items for the holiday cottage contingent.
I bought a couple of bags of jelly babies – one of my weaknesses – a block of mature Cheddar, a small jar of pickled onions, some tomatoes and a pot of Marmite, and went out again, my little rucksack now bulging.
I rounded the bend in the road and there was the bridge again, happily now a Wayne-free zone, with the pub sitting opposite.
It had a porch supported by wooden pillars and the main part of the building looked ancient, though you could see where there had been later extensions in both directions. A painted board fixed next to the porch advertised coffee and bar snacks … though perhaps not at that moment, for the door was firmly shut.
On the far side was a restaurant with its own entrance, the windows overlooking a cobbled yard and outbuildings. Inside were lights and signs of activity, even if it wasn’t yet open.
Darkness was falling over the valley now that the sun had sunk below the surrounding hills, and I decided the delights of the ancient ruins could wait for another day, especially since Wayne had vanished in that direction and I didn’t much fancy running into him again, should he be still roaming in the gloaming.
Returning over the bridge was a little like stepping back in time, with the half-moon of the Green, the intricate black and white Tudor façade of Old Grace Hall and the long, low shape of Lavender Cottage. Though the café, with the ice-cream vendor’s tricycle parked outside it, was a bit out of step.
I wandered across the grass to peer through the pointed iron rails on the wall that prevented the unwary from the dangerous drop down to the river below and then crossed to look at the Village Hall – or Hut, as my employers had called it. I thought it might have started out as a hut, but was now much more substantial.
By the gate there was one of those notice boards behind glass, and peering closely I discovered that the Friends of Jericho’s End met every Tuesday evening at seven, new members always welcome. They would be holding an Easter egg hunt in the garden (by which I supposed they meant the enclosed stretch of turf with a few bushes that surrounded the Hut) on the morning of Easter Sunday, to be opened by the vicar of St Gabriel’s, the Reverend Jojo Micklejohn.
There were also various adverts for the amenities of the village, like the general store and the pub, which had a quiz night on Fridays. There was a bus timetable, too. The only bus stop was in the car park by the monastic ruins and it left on weekdays for Great Mumming at nine thirty and returned, having first gone up to Thorstane and back, at four thirty. If those times and days didn’t suit, you could whistle.
There was a card in one corner with a Thorstane taxi number, which I should think got a lot of use.
I was glad I had my little car, even though it was pretty much held together by string and hope.
Between the Village Hut and Old Grace Hall was the entrance to some old outbuildings, probably the original barn and stables for the house.
There was warm light behind the mullioned windows of the Hall, the gleaming white door flanked by neatly dug borders planted with spring bulbs.
It was all very pretty, but I didn’t linger, in case Ned was indoors and caught me goggling at his house.
Next came a tangle of dense black briars behind a short stretch of wall dividing the Hall from Lavender Cottage and I thought the rose garden must be wedge-shaped, for it was much wider by the fish pond. I wondered how far back it went … and itched to get my hands on some secateurs and find out.
There were more neat beds in front o
f Lavender Cottage, which I remembered were the special domain of James Hyde, the ancient gardener I hadn’t yet met and would do my best not to cross. There was work enough, without adding extra.
All was quiet as I opened the door to the flat, which already felt familiar and welcoming: a haven, where I could settle happily into my new life.
If it was proving impossible to excise completely from my mind what had happened during my brief marriage, at least here I could finish the healing process … and, as they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
There might still be a few bumps along the way, even though I’d ironed out the situation with Ned. Wayne Vane could well be one of them.
I had dinner, followed by a dessert of jelly babies and an apple, then put the TV on low for company, while I made a start on the Matterhorn of possessions in the corner.
First, the low velvet chair, which went by the fireplace, with the small, white-painted bookcase next to it. Then I unrolled a rag rug that had been carefully layered with lavender bags and stored in a flat-topped wooden box, which became my new coffee table.
I was just filling the bookcase with the Beatrix Potters and Enid Blytons of my childhood, when I was interrupted by the imperative summons of Caspar, who had decided to join me.
He watched from the sofa as I finished filling the bookcase with more battered old favourites, but soon the busy day began to catch up with me and, after propping the landing door ajar for Caspar, should he need to make an exit, I retired to bed with Elf’s book. There was a good bedside lamp and I settled down, or I did once Caspar had stopped trampling across me with his great, hairy feet.
A Short History of the Village of Jericho’s End
Elfrida Price-Jones
Table of Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1: Beginnings
An outline of the situation and history of the village and its environs, including the early monastic ruins and the later rise of a strange religious sect.
Chapter 2: Fairies or Angels?
The many legends of fairy and angel visitations.
Chapter 3: Lost Treasure
Chapter 4: Gentlemen and Buccaneers
Some early history of the ancient Grace family, Old Grace Hall and the manor of Risings, together with the tale of a Regency scandal.
Chapter 5: The Grace Garden
The creation of the seventeenth-century apothecary garden at Old Grace Hall and the Tradescant connection.
Chapter 6: The Heyday of the Victorian and Edwardian Day-trippers
The creation of the River Walk, the advent of cycling tours and the arrival of the Verdi family and the first ice-cream parlour in Lancashire.
Chapter 7: The Jericho’s End Group
The flourishing artists’ colony between the wars.
Chapter 8: Jericho’s End Today
The post-war decline in visitors and the slow climb back to the popular tourist destination that it is today, with a map of the various interesting points and amenities.
Chapter 9: Then and Now
A collection of old and new photographs.
My eyelids were growing heavy at this point, but I turned over the page and read on.
Introduction
In this short book I have endeavoured to describe the varied fortunes of this small and out-of-the way village – even the Black Death gave it a miss – which later came to attract artists, writers and all those who love the beauty of natural form and the magnetic and enthralling power of water cascading from rocky outcrops and rushing forward towards the valley …
Even had I not been so sleepy by now, Elf’s writing style was a bit on the soporific side and the words began to dance in front of my eyes. I put the book on the bedside table, turned out the light, and Caspar stretched out luxuriously beside me and then relaxed with a long, contented sigh.
11
Wheels within Wheels
Casper was still there when I woke, but once I got up he leaped off the bed and headed for the door to Lavender Cottage, so I closed it after him.
I wondered if Jacob really did intend installing a giant cat flap in the door.
Dawn was a tinge of rose in a dark lilac-grey sky, but it soon grew light and promised to be a crisp but sunny day.
After breakfast I dressed for work, in warm layers under a padded waxed cotton gilet of great age, which some visitor had left behind at one of the châteaux I’d worked at and never reclaimed.
You’d be surprised at the odd things you find in lost property boxes.
My anorak was stuffed into the rucksack, along with a bottle of water, and then I was ready to go.
I went into the café first, even though it was too early to expect anyone to be there, but I thought perhaps if Myfy or Elf was in their kitchen I could have a quick word.
The top half of the stable door was ajar, though, and Myfy must have heard my boots on the floor, because she looked over it.
‘Morning,’ she said. ‘Would you like some breakfast? We’re having porridge and toast.’
‘Oh, no, thank you, I’ve had mine,’ I said. ‘I just came to say that I was going over to the Hall this morning, but I’ll make a start on your garden some time this afternoon, before I check the River Walk. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ said Elf, popping up next to her sister in a way that started to remind me of an old-fashioned Punch and Judy show I’d seen on the TV. We just needed a dog, a policeman and a string of sausages.
‘You and Ned just arrange it how you want to,’ Myfy told me. ‘His need is greater than ours.’
‘I can’t wait to start on the rose garden – but I’ll see what he wants me to do first.’
‘I don’t remember a time when you could get down any of the paths in the rose garden,’ said Myfy. ‘So good luck with that.’
‘You might find Caspar out there,’ Elf suggested. ‘He had his breakfast early and then we thought we’d try letting him out for the first time, so we hope he’ll come back again.’
Myfy said, ‘But he’s microchipped, if he wanders off.’
‘I’ll keep an eye out for him,’ I promised.
But it was Ned I found first, sitting on the marble bench in the rose garden, tossing food to the koi, whose great red-gold and silver shapes emerged from the murky depths like ghosts, swirled, mouths opening and shutting, then slowly sank back into the darkness again.
‘I wondered who fed those,’ I said, closing the gate behind me and going to sit on the end of the bench, leaving a respectable distance between us.
‘My uncle Theo looked after them and the peacocks – he used to sit here for hours on warm days – but unfortunately he wasn’t much of a gardener.’
‘Sounds like Treena, my sister. Her family had a garden centre and nursery, but all she ever cared about was animals and birds. She’s a vet now, in Great Mumming.’
He was still looking down at the pool, where a last koi surfaced, then vanished, leaving a spreading circle of ripples, so I could safely study his face for a moment. It was intended by nature to be open and good-humoured, with those lean cheeks bracketing a long, straight mouth that could quirk upwards at the corners in amusement. But now, even in repose, it wore a reserved, wary expression that wasn’t natural to it … and maybe my arrival was the cause?
I looked away and found the surface of the water smooth again … and there were our reflections, side by side: my heart-shaped face, with wings of black hair springing from either side of my forehead and eyes darkened by the shadows, so that I looked like a little goblin, green jerkin and all, next to his tall fairness.
I turned quickly and saw that the peacock was strutting through the open gate to the Grace Garden, followed by his drabber and more homely mate.
‘Lancelot and Guinevere,’ Ned said, seeing where I was looking.
‘Really? That’s a coincidence,’ I said, and told him about imagining a hand and arm appearing from the middle of the pond, Excalibur fashion, brandishing a gilded
rake.
That surprised a grin out of him that made him look much more like his old self. ‘You’re crazy! Though of course, if we could get it to make a regular appearance, it would certainly draw in the visitors.’
He stood up suddenly, giving me a half-smile that told me he didn’t entirely yet trust me, but wanted to, and this time I didn’t feel angry. In fact, it was sort of endearing, like a badly treated dog trying to wag its tail. That image made me grin back, which unfortunately seemed to unnerve him.
‘Right, I’d better give you a quick tour of the garden and then start you off on something – though God knows, there’s enough to do to keep ten full-time gardeners busy for a year and I’ve been managing with Gertie and James, and Wayne one day a week, till I fired him.’
‘Well, now you’ve got me too, and I’m not afraid of hard work – in fact, I can’t wait to start,’ I said, then paused before adding, ‘Actually, I had a brief encounter with Wayne yesterday afternoon on the bridge and he wasn’t very pleasant.’
I gave him the gist of what Wayne had said and Ned ran a hand through his tawny hair, so that it stood up on end like a ruffled eagle’s crest, and sighed. ‘I’m sorry about that. He’s got a bit of a grudge about my firing him, but he wasn’t only useless, he took things.’
‘He did say something about you begrudging him a few vegetables to take home.’
‘He helped himself to a lot more than that. The odd bit of produce for his own family wouldn’t have mattered, but he was taking tons of stuff and selling it. Gert was livid; the vegetable and fruit gardens are her preserve. Then I caught him red-handed one day, sneaking out with most of the early potatoes and a brand-new hoe, and that was it. Other things had gone missing too – more garden tools and a tenner from James’s jacket, when it was hung up on a spade handle, but we just hadn’t caught him at it. He denied it, of course.’
‘I suppose he would, but you can’t really talk your way out of a sack of new potatoes and a hoe, can you?’
The Garden of Forgotten Wishes: The heartwarming and uplifting new rom-com from the Sunday Times bestseller Page 11
