The Little Island Flower Stall

Chapter Two

As Ottilie drove over a pothole, the entire contents of her car boot rattled. Many of her most treasured possessions were in there – she’d decided to take them herself rather than trust them to the removal van. They seemed very conscientious, but you never knew. The way the whole lot had just been thrown into the air as she’d taken flight over a bump she hadn’t seen until it was too late, she wondered now if that had been the wisest course.

The roads leading to the tiny Lake District village of Thimblebury were undoubtedly some of the most beautiful she’d ever driven, embraced by mist-wreathed hills and dizzying valleys of emerald green with the white dots of sheep clinging to their sides, but they were some of the most alarming too. They turned and twisted and narrowed into blind bends, or disappeared into dark tunnels of trees, and the potholes were something else. People complained about the roads back in Manchester, the rainy vista she’d left a couple of hours before, but they were nothing like this. It was lucky the views more than made up for some of the more… rustic surfaces.

Another jolt was met with another crash from the boot. Ottilie grimaced and hoped that the tinkling sound she was convinced she’d heard wasn’t her great-grandma’s china tea service. It had survived the Blitz and several house moves before it had been passed down, and Ottilie didn’t want to end up as the weak link in the chain. She tried not to recall how she’d hoped to pass it down herself some day, because that would mean recognising that she was childless and likely to remain that way now that Josh was gone, and so she turned up the radio to block the thoughts out.

She’d had six months to get used to her new status as widow. The word seemed old-fashioned and fusty whenever she thought of it, the preserve of old ladies, not someone like her. And yet, here she was, a widow, leaving her old life behind, searching for hope, clinging on to any tiny grain she could find.

Life without Josh had been unthinkable in the early days and weeks. Not just unthinkable, but not even real. She’d refused to believe he was gone. It was strange – in her job she’d seen more bereavement, more grieving and desolation than she could bring to mind, and she’d supported those families with sympathy and pity, yet she’d never really been able to imagine what it might be like. She couldn’t have known how it would tear open a wound in her soul that felt as if it would never heal, how it would force a chasm between a new reality and a past she wasn’t willing to let go of that might never be bridged. Every day that passed blurred the edges of the event a little, but that only made her want to fight harder to keep them sharp. She wanted to heal – so desperately sick of feeling bereft – and yet she couldn’t let go of her grief, because it meant letting go of Josh and she would never do that.

It had happened so quickly and violently too, and in her more lucid moments she wondered whether that was part of the problem. Perhaps if there had been a creeping illness, a slow decline, some kind of warning, she’d have been prepared. But there hadn’t. One minute he was on duty, fit and strong, looking forward to their wedding anniversary celebrations, as she was, and the next he was dead. Her Josh, her life, her light, the only man she’d ever loved – gone.

It had been a scuffle with a suspect gone wrong – someone had attacked him but they hadn’t meant to kill him – at least, that was the official line – and that almost made it worse. It seemed like such a cruel twist, such a senseless end to a situation Josh had dealt with dozens of times before. She’d always had the vague, overarching worries that many other police wives had, but she’d never given them any serious consideration. Josh had always seemed so sensible, so instinctive, so good at his job that he could deal with anything. She’d never imagined for one second she’d be here, driving to a new life without him.

Glancing at the route on her phone screen, she held back a frown. The village ought to have been in sight by now, but she couldn’t see any houses.

The road followed a gentle bend, and as Ottilie rounded it, she saw a man ahead, up on a grass verge. Dressed in green wellies and a fleece, it looked as if he was mending some fencing. Ottilie slowed as she drew closer then stopped and wound the window down. He looked around, a vague expression of surprise, his movements slow and measured. Ottilie would have had him at around his mid-seventies, maybe older, but although he was slow, she felt that the pace came from a place of care rather than ill health. In fact, judging by the tall-handled mallet he was wielding, he was still as strong as a man decades younger.

‘Sorry to bother you,’ she called across, choosing to kill the engine so she could hear his reply better.

‘No bother.’ The man’s face crinkled into a smile. Ottilie decided that it would have been a handsome smile once, and it was quite winning, even now. ‘You’re lost?’

‘A bit. I suppose you must get a lot of that round here, eh?’

He leaned on the handle of his mallet and regarded her keenly. ‘From time to time. Big towns are easy enough to find, tiny villages not so much. So where are you after?’

‘Thimblebury. My directions say it’s close, but I’m wondering if I’ve somehow missed it.’

‘You’ve not missed it – it’s over yonder. Road dips into a valley ahead. Thimblebury’s there, nice and safe – at least it was last time I looked.’ His gaze was keener still, and he seemed to study her intently. ‘What do you want in Thimblebury?’

‘I’m moving there. Do you know it well?’

She wanted to ask if it was a nice place to live, if she’d be happy – because many times over the past six months she’d felt as if she’d never be happy again – if she’d be welcomed, but perhaps that wasn’t helpful in the current situation. If the answers to any of those questions were negative, it was a bit too late now. The house she’d shared with Josh in Manchester was gone, so there was no turning back.

‘Ah!’ He looked suddenly pleased with himself. ‘I’ll bet you’re the new nurse.’

‘I am,’ Ottilie said, sensing a longer chat and getting out of the car to see him better. ‘I’m Ottilie. How did you know?’

‘Oh, there’s been a bit of talk about who it might be. Gwen has been gone a couple of weeks; folks are impatient for someone new to take the job on. They’ll be happy to see you. I’m Victor – pleased to meet you.’

‘So you live in Thimblebury, Victor?’

‘Not quite. My farm is on the hill. Close enough to be included when it suits though.’

‘You’ve got a farm? I saw some sheep a way back – are they yours?’

‘No, not mine. They’ll belong to Hilltop. Used to keep sheep, but these days I have alpaca.’

Ottilie blinked. ‘Alpaca? Sorry but I was not expecting that! Where are they?’ She glanced up at the slopes behind him.

‘They’re fastened in for the time being, until I get this fence sorted.’

‘So they’re good business? I mean, better than sheep? Do you get more wool or something? Sorry but I know literally nothing about farming.’

‘There’s more money in the tourists that come to see them. I’ve got a little walking trail – families can take them for a stroll. Kids love it. It’s still early in the season, a bit quiet yet – won’t get going properly until July and August, but bookings are picking up.’

‘I bet they do. I’d love it! I’ll have to come up and see them before you get very busy. So you do that on your own? Sounds like a lot.’

He let out a chuckle. ‘I know I look ancient, but I manage all right. I’ve got my daughters and their husbands too. I let them have bits of land for their houses, and they repay me by working the farm when I need help.’

‘Sounds like a pretty good arrangement to me.’ Ottilie smiled.

‘So you’ll be taking Wordsworth Cottage then?’

‘Yes, right again.’

If Ottilie had come looking for anonymity, it seemed she wasn’t going to find it. Village nurse was hardly the job for that anyway, but since Josh’s death she’d spent so much time alone, the potential of being a part of a community again felt like it would be a welcome change.

Plenty of people had done their best to support her, of course – friends, family, colleagues – and so it was hardly their fault she’d felt so isolated in her grief. The simple fact was, many of them had only been a part of her life since Josh had been in it and, even if they hadn’t, there was always some connection, something that made them remind her of him. And in the background was Ottilie’s old people-pleasing instincts, despite her pain, not wanting to be the person who made others feel uncomfortable, not wanting to transmit her sorrow to anyone else, not wanting them to suffer because she was suffering. Her mum had seen it and told her to lean on those who wanted to help, because they did want to help, but Ottilie simply couldn’t do it. In the end, there had been too much against her moving forward in Manchester. She didn’t want to stay in the home she’d shared with Josh or work at the hospital where he’d died. And there were other complications too, fears she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud, not even to her closest family.

‘It’s a nice size,’ he said. ‘Good for a family. Harold and Doreen managed to raise three there, no trouble.’ He shook his head wonderingly. ‘Their oldest went off to work in Exeter, you know, and they decided to go with him. Can’t fathom it myself, at their age. You’d want to stay put. Anyway…you’ll have plenty of room for your family.’

‘That’s good to know, but it’s just me.’

Perhaps something of her inner pain showed in her face, because the man suddenly seemed unsure of himself, as if he felt he’d crossed a line he hadn’t been aware had existed.

‘Not married then?’

‘I was,’ Ottilie said bleakly. ‘He died.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘It’s all right.’ Ottilie tried to smile to reassure him, but the effort was too much. Josh’s loss was still so raw for all the months that had passed since that horrendous day. She tried to move forward a little more every day, and she often convinced herself that she had, but the grief was always there, filling the dark spaces, showing itself whenever she dared to look. ‘If you don’t ask questions, then you don’t learn anything about anyone, do you?’

Victor looked unconvinced. He sniffed and then shifted awkwardly to swap the hand that rested on the long handle of his mallet.

Ottilie tried harder to produce that smile, to reinforce her point. She was fine. Totally fine. People would ask – it was only natural – and she would tell them what happened because there was no point in hiding it. She would tell them how her soul mate, her one true love, her everything had been ripped from her life in the cruellest instant, and it would be fine. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t their fault. Did they deserve to be at the sharp end of the anger and resentment that sometimes took her in unguarded moments? Maybe it was down to the universe – whatever that was or meant, because people said the universe did this or that, but did it really? The only person she could get angry at was the man who’d attacked him on duty that day, but as they hadn’t caught anyone yet, Ottilie didn’t even have that.

‘Got much to move in?’ Victor asked. ‘I could rally the troops if you need a hand.’

‘I think I’ll be all right. The removal van’s following.’

‘Ah, they’ll do it for you?’

‘The amount it cost to hire, I should hope so! But if you’re looking for an excuse to come over, I’d love you and your family to visit so I can get to know you better. The kettle will be the first thing I unpack – can’t survive without my tea.’

‘You’ll fit right in here then. I’m sure the wife will be itching to come over.’

‘I’d like to meet her – I have a feeling I’ll like her. I’m looking forward to getting to know everyone in time. Bring her over whenever you get a minute.’

‘You might regret saying that.’ Victor’s smile was easier. ‘Nobody in Thimblebury needs much of an invitation to come and nosy at you.’

‘Honestly, that’s sort of what I’m hoping for. This is all new to me – upping sticks and moving to the countryside – so a few friendly faces will be most welcome.’

‘Oh, you’ll get all that and more round here.’

Ottilie’s reply was stolen by the rumble of a lorry coming down the road and heading in their direction.

‘Looks like my removal van is going to beat me there,’ she said as they watched it rattle past, a cloud of dust and fumes in its wake that seemed a crime as it climbed into the clear blue sky to dissipate above the valley. ‘I suppose that means I ought to get a move on. I can’t have them sitting outside waiting for me to open up.’

‘Make them earn their money, eh?’

‘I was thinking that they’d want a pot of tea, but you might have a point about that. The quicker my stuff’s in, the quicker I can get settled.’

‘Don’t forget…’ Victor nodded back at a house on a distant hill. It was squat and sturdy and made of stone as far as Ottilie could see from this distance, the sun glinting off slate tiles on the roof. ‘Daffodil Farm – that’s us. Anything you need, just knock. I’d give you a landline number, but I can never remember it, and the mobile phones I’ve lost in slurry and feed and such over the years, I don’t see any point in having another. You can call the house though – there’s always someone in.’

‘Thank you,’ Ottilie said. ‘That’s very kind.’

‘Not at all. Least we can do.’

‘What for?’

‘For taking the job. You’ll have your work cut out, let me tell you. Gwen never stopped – no wonder she chose not to live in the village – commuted in from Keswick, you know. If she’d lived here, she’d never have had a moment’s peace. Half the village would still have her on duty if they could.’

‘Well, I’m looking forward to starting.’

‘You say that…’

Ottilie laughed at Victor’s eyebrow raise. ‘Honestly, a full schedule is exactly what I need. I love being busy. If anything, I’ll be sticking my nose into things that probably don’t need me, so I don’t mind at all if I have a full appointment list every day.’

‘Again, I have to say be careful what you wish for. I’ll ask you if you still feel that way once you’ve done your first week. When do you start, by the way?’

‘I’m taking a week of leave to get the house straight before I start and I have a bit of extra training to do, but if anyone needs me before then I’m happy to see them unofficially. I know you don’t have a nurse at the moment, so I appreciate people are anxious about that.’

Victor scratched his head and then put his hat back on. ‘I’m actually being serious now – I’d keep that to yourself. You’ll have a queue at your front door before you can say hypochondriac. And don’t forget we have a doctor.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Ottilie nodded slightly. ‘I haven’t met her yet in the flesh – only on Zoom. Dr Cheadle, isn’t it? I’m planning to pop into the surgery later to introduce myself.’

‘I’m surprised she didn’t retire at the same time as Gwen. They’ve worked together for forty years and I know Dr Cheadle is right fond of her, and she’s about the right age to finish too.’

‘Well I’m glad she didn’t. I’ll be making full use of her local knowledge while I find my feet.’ Ottilie glanced down the road to where the van had just gone. ‘I’m sorry, I’m enjoying our chat but I really must…’

‘’Course. Don’t let me keep you. Don’t forget where I am if you need anything.’

‘I won’t. It was lovely to meet you, and I look forward to meeting the rest of your family. And your alpaca!’

Victor picked up his mallet as Ottilie got back into the driver’s seat. ‘And I expect you’ll get more sense out of the alpaca than any of my lot.’

As Victor had promised, Thimblebury revealed itself like a sunrise gradually unveiling its glory as Ottilie drove into the hollow where it lay nestled. The housing market had been frantic that year and so, crazy as it seemed to her now, this would be the first time she’d visited in person. Desperate to make the move to secure the job, and with Wordsworth Cottage pretty much the only house for sale in such a tiny place, she’d made an offer on it without a physical viewing, from photos alone, almost the same day that the house had gone up for sale. It had been the only way, as far as she could see, and something in her heart simply told her that this village and this house was where she was meant to be at this point in her life. Risky, insane, foolhardy…her mum had many opinions on the matter, and to a point Ottilie could see why she might be alarmed on her behalf, but she’d spoken at length to the previous owners during the transfer, had trusted the surveys, and was now the keeper of a higgledy, ramshackle house that had been built over four hundred years before Ottilie had arrived on the planet. In her opinion, more decisions ought to be made this way, because far too often, life was too short to be cautious.

The houses of Thimblebury were scattered over the basin of the valley as if they’d been left by a child who’d finished playing with them. The narrow streets and lanes were random and chaotic but all the more charming for it. Ottilie was used to angular roads and avenues on the new estate she’d lived on with Josh, the houses precise and pristine and ordered. She’d been happy enough there, and she’d thought it pleasant and convenient and full of the trappings of modern life that she’d always wanted before, but since she’d lost Josh, she needed something completely different, something that wouldn’t make her think of him every time she looked. She hoped Thimblebury, with its mismatched houses and wildflower verges, and swallows nesting in the eaves of thatches or gardens with bird boxes or bug hotels, and an antique red telephone box, and all manner of other little charms would be it.

The River Leven was relatively sedate at this point where it passed close to the village, and Ottilie had been delighted to cross it via an old stone bridge. She wasn’t sure which bit of coast it ended at, but she did know that at some point it met nearby Lake Windermere and she looked forward to seeing for herself before too long. There were trees everywhere – tiny maples and magnolias in gardens, towering oaks and beech shading the churchyard and willows draped over the riverbanks. She’d never lived anywhere so vibrant and green. From the top of the valley, the village spread out like a living tapestry. It had looked pretty online, ideal for her new life, but up close it was breathtaking.

Ottilie was caught by a sudden wave of emotion at the sight and, from nowhere, tears filled her eyes.

‘Josh…’ she murmured. ‘You’d have bloody loved this.’

Only she’d never know that for sure. Perhaps Josh would have loved it. Or perhaps he’d have been unmoved by the hedgerows where poppies and coltsfoot peeked from long grass while bees shuttled in and out, or the drystone walls where anemones and ivy thrived in the gaps, or the verdant fields that changed colour in the breeze like shoals of shining fish darting this way and that, or the cloud of starlings overhead or the rooks and crows standing sentry in the high branches of the trees, but he wasn’t here to say.

Ottilie tried not to think of that as she continued into the village. Thimblebury was her new start and she had to be braver than this. She had to make it work, because the alternative was wallowing in her memories back in Manchester and, whatever else she was guessing at, she knew for certain Josh would never have wanted that.

The removal van was obscuring Wordsworth Cottage from view as Ottilie stopped the car. Two youths and a much older man were sitting on the stone wall of her front garden. The older man stubbed out a cigarette as he noted her arrival and came to greet her.

‘Sorry,’ she said as she got out of the car. ‘I got a bit held up.’

‘Not to worry; just that we couldn’t do a lot until you got here.’

‘No, of course. I’ll open up now.’

‘Lovely spot you’ve got here,’ he said as he followed her to the gate.

For the first time, Ottilie’s house was right there in front of her, in the flesh, and it was every bit as beautiful and welcoming as she’d hoped it would be. The front-facing wall was rendered a pristine white – it looked as if the sellers had painted it freshly for her, because it was gleaming in the sun. She made a mental note to email them to thank them. The gable wall was made of a sturdy dove-grey stone and the roof was heavy slate. The sash windows looked newly painted too, and the sage-green front door was dressed with a leafy garland hanging from an iron knocker, and a fragrant honeysuckle clinging to the surrounding trellis.

It was only May, and yet the garden was already a vibrant mass of summer colour: towering hollyhocks, rose bushes, poppies, marigolds, lavender, marguerites and many other varieties Ottilie had no name for. As she walked the path, they released bees and butterflies into the sky. In the shade of the house was a mossy-edged pond, a tiny water feature trickling into it and an actual frog sitting on the stones. It was like a house from a fairy tale, and standing in front of the entrance with a key in her hand, Ottilie could scarcely believe she owned it.

Suddenly aware of how long it was taking her to unlock the door and that, perhaps, she might look a bit nutty to her removal team as she stood and gazed at her house, she shook herself. There would be time later to come to terms with her new home and the life that would come with it, but there were more pressing matters to deal with. There was a lot to get inside and the day was already slipping away from them.

Ottilie turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open.

The smell was immediate, that strange smell that would smell like home once she got used to it but, for now, was unfamiliar. Different air, different rooms, different building materials, the products the previous owner used to clean, the food they ate regularly, even the places where the sun came in through the windows, all these things and more mashed together to create an individual aroma that every house had. This wasn’t the same as the new build she’d shared with Josh in Manchester. This was somehow mellower, earthier, perhaps a note that told her she’d have to look out for damp during the winter months. But it was an old house and that was to be expected – it didn’t worry her. There was something waxy in it, old wood and carbolic soap, and perhaps a hint of lavender and honeysuckle sneaking in from the clumps growing closest to the front door.

The layout was flat and broad. Ottilie had visited many houses – especially the old terraces where many of her family members had lived as she’d been growing up – where the house would look like nothing from the front but would reach back for what seemed like miles in the most deceiving way. But Wordsworth Cottage was honest about what lay beyond the entrance, the front door opening straight into a sitting room with stairs at one side and a parlour at the other, and the kitchen clearly visible beyond through an open door. It was all at once bright and yet cocooning, airy but cosy, felt very old but fitted with all the trappings of modernity.

On the shelf over the log burner stood a vase filled with pink carnations and an envelope tucked behind it. With the sounds of the removal men throwing open the truck behind her, Ottilie went over with a faint smile and opened it.

Hello Ottilie!

Just a note to welcome you to Thimblebury. We’ve left some local honey and teabags in the larder, a pint of milk and a block of butter from the dairy farm in Windermere in the fridge and some freshly baked bread in a crock on the kitchen counter. We thought it might be useful to start you off until you can get to the shops and you don’t want to be worrying about any of that when you’re trying to move in.

We hope your new life in Wordsworth Cottage will be everything you wish for. If you’re half as happy here as we’ve been then it will be like heaven. Good luck with the villagers!

Fondest wishes,

Harold and Doreen

Ottilie gazed up at the carnations. She’d been feeling emotionally vulnerable as it was, but the kindness of Harold and Doreen was almost enough to push her over the edge. Sniffing hard, she went to the front door, still clutching the note, and called to the removal team.

‘Anyone want a cup of tea?’

There was a chorus of approval, and while Ottilie went to her car to find her kettle, someone started whistling the tune to ‘Jerusalem’.

She gazed up at the hills beyond her new home. In England’s green and pleasant land…weren’t they the words to that song? Well, she couldn’t argue with that.

* * *