New Beginnings at Rose Cottage

by Erin Green

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. I look up to witness genuine concern in his dark eyes. ‘That can’t have been easy for you.’

  I give a nonchalant shrug, unsure how to proceed.

  Ziggy’s just proved that he’s not like other guys. Which seems logical given that other guys don’t ask me out for a drink in their local, don’t invite me to sit at their favourite table by the window where passing friends might see, and don’t focus on every word I say.

  ‘I still have both my parents, yet I messed up at school and got into bother as a teenager. I depend on them when life goes wrong. I can’t imagine either of them . . .’ He stops, grabs his Coke, takes a long swig.

  I nod. ‘You can’t miss what you’ve never had,’ I say in a blasé tone, my standard attempt to jolly the conversation along.

  Ziggy nods, eyeing me across the lip of his glass. It’s obvious that he’s seen straight through my remark. And for the first time in my life, that’s OK by me.

  Emma

  I am on cloud nine. I carefully fold the three notes into a small wodge and hold it tightly in my palm.

  This is the beginning of my new venture. I want to squeal with delight, dance along the cobbled streets and dash into the Co-op in search of more ingredients to create my next concoction.

  This is divine. Martin’s words roll about my mind, alongside the image of him glancing at Luca, the two of them nodding and smiling in agreement.

  I wanted to tell him how much his words meant to me. The phrase sounds like a starting pistol in my head. It has given me the green light to go forth and experiment and explore my talent, but most of all it has provided me with a legitimate business proposition. The small bakery or coffee shop disappears from my future vision; I now have a clear idea to ponder whilst on holiday and implement once I arrive back home. A fully fledged plan that will pave the way as my first step towards freedom and a new life. A better life, a happier one, where I make the decisions and nobody questions my judgement. Where no one will add their suggestion, hint at their preferred choice or railroad my idea to fit their own agenda.

  I stop walking and silently chastise myself. I’ve allowed my mood to change from sunny outlook to fog. I promised myself I wouldn’t think like that for two whole weeks. My focus while I’m here is on ideas for a business that can support me; that in itself will be a giant step towards being where I want to be.

  I set off again, silently repeating the mantra, ‘You create the weather in your world, if only in your head.’ Good girl, that’s more like it.

  If I quicken my pace, I might be able to buy more fresh produce and create another batch of ice cream before I retire to bed. I might try blending the fresh lavender from the patio garden; there’s plenty of flowering sprigs available.

  As I walk the length of the quay, I squeeze my hand tight, feeling the corners of the wodge of notes digging into my palm. It feels good to have earned money from my talent. To have had recognition from those in the know. To have received a compliment from total strangers—

  I stop dead.

  In the window of the next pub, I can see Benni sitting opposite the skateboard guy. He’s talking, she’s laughing; their half-empty glasses sit between them.

  So, she’s not as solo as she makes out. It’s only Tuesday and yet she’s chatting and joking with this young man as if she’s known him for a lifetime. I watch the warmth between them, the ease with which they interact. Why can’t I have something like that? Why couldn’t it be me seated opposite a man who is interested in my thoughts and ideas?

  I watch as Benni picks up her wine glass and sips, her eyes remaining on him.

  A voice in my head reminds me: I know exactly why that can’t be me.

  I turn and quickly stride in the opposite direction for fear of being spotted. I’ll speak to her later, cut her a share of the takings, but she’s obviously too busy to lend a helping hand with the next batch of ice cream.

  Chapter Five

  Wednesday 22 August

  Benjamina

  I tentatively finger the tourist information leaflet lying on the kitchen counter. I have no idea which of my housemates left it there, but suddenly I know how I want to spend my morning. It might be a good way to catch up on fun after spending yesterday helping Emma with her culinary delights.

  I’m nervous, and I can’t explain why, other than to blame it on the spontaneity of my decision. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve rung for a taxi and am travelling the short distance to the local riding stables. The driver tries to conceal his look of surprise when I confirm my destination.

  Cheeky sod, but what do I care about the likes of him? I can do as I please during this holiday.

  Ziggy didn’t bat an eyelid last night at my reply when he asked me if there was anything I wished I’d done as a kid. Some girls attended Girl Guides, others leapt about at gymnastics and tap dancing lessons. Me, I stayed at home and watched Grange Hill, Blue Peter and Newsround. That way I had no weekly subs to pay, no equipment to buy and no drop off/pick up time constraints on a lone parent. With a couple of packets of cheesy Wotsits, a can of Coke and a chocolate bar, I was set for the entire night, or at least until teatime. Horse riding was so far out of my reach, it might as well have been space travel.

  The taxi stops beside a large wooden gate displaying a sign for Holly Lane Riding Stables. A painted black horse’s head greets me with a toothy grin. I’m unsure if it’s the right image given the symbolism for the Godfather films instantly flickers through my head.

  I pay the driver and watch as the taxi leaves a billow of dust in its wake, smothering my black leggings and new trainers.

  Too late now to back out: it’s either go inside and enquire, or walk back to the cottage. I choose the former, though what exactly I’m going to say to the stable manager hasn’t been established in my mind. I might simply ask for a tour. Or maybe, after they’ve taken one look at me and decided that none of their horses are suitable to carry the likes of me . . . I’ll slouch off hiding my embarrassment.

  But at least I’ll have tried. And that’s what I’ll tell Ziggy . . . if I see him again.

  I freeze as I close the gate behind me, the nerves finally kicking in in earnest.

  What the hell am I doing here?

  ‘Hello, can I help you?’ calls a female voice.

  I turn to see a young woman, probably no older than someone fresh out of school, striding towards me in skin-tight jodhpurs and a skinny-rib T-shirt, her mane of dark hair bouncing about her shoulders. She is the epitome of a horse rider: svelte, energetic and smiling.

  I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

  ‘Hi,’ she repeats more loudly. ‘How can I help you?’ She’s standing before me in a matter of seconds, her clear, rosy complexion and her obvious fitness radiating like a summer morning.

  ‘I was wondering if I could have a look around,’ I say tentatively.

  ‘Sure. Do you ride?’

  I stare at her, wondering if her eyesight is intact.

  ‘Er, no,’ I say, glancing down at myself in order to check that some miraculous event hasn’t occurred and I am still the proud owner of my plus-sized curves, with voluptuous thighs and hips.

  ‘Are you interested in lessons?’ she asks eagerly, her eyes wide and sparkling as she walks me across the yard. The area is surrounded by various fenced and grassed sections, and a covered passageway leads to the stables themselves.

  I’m unsure whether to squeeze this girl tight and thank her from the bottom of my heart for her attitude towards the fuller figure, or reprimand her for taking the piss.

  I choose to be polite instead.

  ‘No, just interested in seeing the horses.’

  ‘Oh great, that’s so lovely to hear. Do you have much experience with horses?’

  I want to say ‘Yes, of course, I’ve ridden all my life�
�. Sadly, I haven’t so I don’t pretend – that could be dangerous. Instead I confess, ‘I’ve always wanted to ride, so I thought I’d take a look.’

  Her face is flushed with delight. I can’t remember the last time I saw a human being with such a joyful expression. Her happy mood is infectious.

  ‘I’m Maddie, by the way, and you are . . . ?’

  ‘I’m Benjamina,’ I say, surprising myself. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I feel like a Benjamina. Racy and daring, the kind of woman who hangs out at riding stables and strokes beautiful horses all day. Or someone who sounds like she might wear a pair of jodhpurs and a skinny-rib T-shirt like Maddie, even if she can’t in reality.

  At the end of the covered passage we reach a double row of stable doors. Various people of all ages are coming and going, carrying brooms and forks and pushing wheelbarrows. They look like worker ants, busy but happy with their work.

  At sporadic intervals along the rows a horse hangs its head over its door and neighs or noses at a passing person.

  I fall in love at first sight.

  Every sense is tingling and stimulated; the smell, the sight, the basic need to touch these majestic animals passes through me like a vibrant wave.

  ‘Did you say you’ve ridden before?’ asks Maddie as we pass along the line.

  Do I lie or tell the truth? Benjamina would tell the truth.

  ‘No, never, but I’d love to try one day.’

  ‘Great! Ever mucked out before?’

  ‘No.’ A bubble of laughter lifts from my throat. I’ve never been to a stable yard before, so how could I possibly . . .

  ‘Well, you can give me a hand if you want.’

  I watch as Maddie strides along the central gangway, touching and stroking the horses’ noses as she passes. A series of grateful noses, quivering lips and fleshy pink tongues return her kindness. Each stable door has a wooden plaque introducing its occupant. I clock the names with interest: Wispy, Herbie, Remy, Hobbit, Memphis, Shamrock and Rosie.

  Such beautiful names.

  I follow Maddie to the last stable on the right-hand side. It’s empty, but the plaque informs me that Bruce lives here.

  ‘Where’s the horse?’ I ask.

  ‘In the paddock,’ replies Maddie. She points at my pastel-coloured trainers. ‘Are you OK in those?’

  ‘Probably not the best choice, were they?’

  ‘Nah, I can find you some wellies if you prefer. What size are you?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Stay here and I’ll be back in a minute. If anyone pops by while I’m gone, say you’re a friend of the family, OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  She darts off, and I’m left staring around the muck-ridden stable. Dirty straw is strewn across the ground, an overturned feeding bowl lies in one corner, and a distinct smell of urine is wafting at my nostrils.

  ‘Here you go,’ says Maddie, handing me a pair of funny-looking wellies.

  ‘Have you cut them down?’ I ask, staring at the small section of wellington which moulds up the leg.

  ‘No, I picked ones that someone had already cut down into ankle boots – more comfortable if your calves are . . . well . . . you know.’

  I smile. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  I wobble as I change into the boots. I must look a right bloody sight, but who cares? Once I’ve gone home they can talk all they want about Benjamina, the big girl, and her cut-down boots. I’ve heard worse!

  ‘Here you go . . . scoop up the big bits of horse poo with that.’ Maddie hands me a plastic rake with large slots. ‘I’ll grab a wheelbarrow.’

  It feels funny to be scooping poo but it reminds me of the hook-a-duck fairground stall we once visited as young kids. I must have only been about five years old. I was pretty good at that, so I expect I’ll be a natural at this.

  Within three scoops, I realise I’m not.

  Maddie returns with the wheelbarrow and instantly removes the scooper from my clutches.

  ‘Like this . . .’ She swiftly scoops and flicks, allowing the sawdust to fall away from the muck. When she does it, it looks so easy. ‘Practice, you just need practice,’ she says, busying herself unhooking a large net from the wall to reveal a large creamy lump hanging from the same hook.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I ask as I continue to scoop and flick.

  ‘That’s a salt lick, and this is a hay net. I’ll go and fill it ready for Bruce’s overnight feed. The greedy bugger gets through a whole one every night. We’ve had to buy a new net recently because the holes were too big and he ate it too quickly.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, horses never stop eating.’

  I nod. That story sounds all too familiar. I say nothing for fear of ridicule.

  ‘There you go, that’s perfect,’ says Maddie, flicking the last of her sawdust up the wall to create a neat border of shavings against the painted brickwork.

  ‘And that’s to stop them damaging their legs as they lie down and move about?’

  ‘Yep, a soft cushioning.’

  I step back and admire her handiwork. Who’d have thought you could make sawdust look so appealing?

  ‘Do you fancy meeting him?’ she asks, collecting her shovel, rake and broom and leaning them against the outside wall of the stable.

  I check my watch: it’s getting late.

  ‘Would you mind if I came back another day to meet Bruce?’

  ‘Sure thing. Drop by any time you want.’

  I like Maddie; she’s honest, caring and kind – much like the feel of the stables and their four-legged occupants.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the gate,’ she says.

  I return my cut-off wellingtons and stride out through the narrow passageway in my trainers.

  ‘Are you walking home?’ Maddie asks.

  ‘Yeah, I think I will. It’s only a mile at the most.’

  She opens the wooden gate and I nip through before she closes it tightly behind me. I turn back to her.

  ‘Thank you. Would you mind if I came back tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course not. You can meet Bruce and feed him a carrot or two.’

  As I start my trek towards Rose Cottage, she calls my name and I turn round.

  ‘Buy yourself some wellies for next time, OK?’

  A smile spreads across my face; Maddie must be a mind reader. I wave cheerily. I can’t wait to come back, to spend more time mucking out but more importantly to meet Bruce.

  Ruth

  I’m unpacking my newly acquired watercolours and art equipment after a busy morning painting when I hear a shriek from downstairs. Is that Emma, or a tourist passing the cottage? I tiptoe from my bedroom to the top of the staircase and listen before calling down.

  ‘Emma . . . are you OK?’

  I hear a scurry of feet before Emma’s startled face appears over the bottom banister.

  ‘You will never guess what?’

  ‘What?’ I repeat idiotically.

  ‘Martin wants another batch of ice cream and . . .’ She pummels the bottom stair with her hands; I imagine it’s supposed to mimic a drum roll. ‘A quick drink tonight.’

  I can see her bright expression and sense her joy, but I’m unsure which event she’s celebrating.

  ‘And you’re jubilant because of which one?’ I ask.

  ‘The drink, of course! The ice cream too – Martin loved the lavender and honey flavour I made last night – but he’s asked me out for a drink! How fantastic is that?’

  ‘Great.’

  Her face drops, her brow creases.

  ‘You could at least get a little excited for me.’

  ‘I am. But I’m a bit distracted by the fact that I’ve just delivered a finished watercolour to the gallery.’ In fact, I’m numb with nerves and self-doubt. ‘I don’t know if Dean will even displa
y it. He says he will, but . . .’ It was the last thing I’d expected given that the composition was barely dry. But he was right yesterday when he said it would take a matter of hours to produce a composition in watercolour. The canvas – or rather the painting board, as Dean told me it was called – that the supplies lady directed me to was perfect. Huge compared to my sketchpad, but ideal, far better than the thick paper I used decades ago.

  ‘Congratulations, sweetie. Seize the day and all that!’

  ‘And you . . . you seem overly excited at the prospect of a date,’ I say, leaning against the wall, my own achievement reigniting my nerves.

  ‘Do you know how long it’s been since a man asked me out for a drink?’

  I have the urge to guess, but I don’t want to get it wrong and annoy her. I shrug instead.

  ‘Years, absolutely bloody ages . . . Woo-hoo!’ Her face contorts like a wailing banshee before she disappears from view.

  ‘Are you sure you should be mixing business with pleasure?’ I yell, unsure if she’s in the lounge or the back kitchen. Relationships aren’t easy at the best of times, but to muddy the waters of her blending experiment seems idiotic.

  Her face reappears at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘Mixing? My speciality is the blending of beautiful textures and flavours to create something superb. Have no fear, Ruth. This concoction will be bloody gorgeous.’

  I’m confused.

  ‘And the drinks date?’

  She frowns again.

  ‘I’m talking about the bloody drinks date – me and Martin getting to know each other better. You never know what might happen!’

  Once again she disappears from view.

  ‘Oh.’ I lean against the landing wall and stare down at the empty hallway. I’m slightly confused. Is Emma’s primary focus creating new and exciting ice creams or finding a love match? I could have sworn she said she needed a new career, nothing more.

  I can hear her tuneful singing coming from the kitchen, so I return to my room. If I hurry, have a quick bite to eat, I could grab a pitch down by the lighthouse and see what I can achieve in an afternoon of painting.