Chapter Two
Dagmar
D agmar urged her grey mare, Zephyra, into a gallop. The rhythmic thud of hooves against the forest floor vibrated through the woods, a steady beat that matched the quickening pulse in her chest.
‘Come on, girl,’ Dagmar said. This was what she lived for, the thrill of the ride. If the rest of her life was this much fun, then she’d be the happiest person alive.
Zephyra flicked an ear in response, the other resolutely forward, indicating she was keen to run. They wove through the trees, the path a familiar blur, the breeze hitting her face, the sense of freedom and space, and even the hint of danger highlighting the sheer power surging through her – like she was sitting on a rocket ready to blast off. Dagmar knew every twist and turn; she’d ridden here for years, ever since she’d taken a summer job on the Glenvorneth Estate when she’d left school. How was that twelve years ago? It felt like yesterday. The summers had flown by. Now she was a single thirty-year-old living in a converted trailer, and it didn’t sound quite as exciting as it had done at eighteen. These days, it seemed a bit sad, and she had no doubt outsiders had plenty to say about her. As they always had.
Up ahead, the trail narrowed, and a fallen tree lay across the path. It had been there for years. Nothing to worry about; it wasn’t huge, but it was a definite obstacle. Dagmar slowed the pace a little, letting Zephyra do the work. Her muscles coiled, then released, launching them both into the air. For a brief moment, Dagmar felt weightless, suspended above the log. Then, with a thud, they were back on the ground.
‘Good girl!’ Dagmar patted Zephyra’s neck.
The woods thinned, the trees giving way to a grassy hill. Dagmar nudged Zephyra on. They crested the hill, the landscape opening up and revealing the sprawling hillside below. The estate of Glenvorneth occupied much of this hill. The manor house was prominent in the centre. Though part of it was covered in scaffolding, it still maintained a grand presence. Since Ophelia Chattan-Blythe, the heiress to the estate, had taken up – rather scandalously – with a local builder, a lot of repairs were taking place. Dagmar had known Ophelia for years. They were a similar age and had been in the pony club together as teens. But they weren’t really friends. Then again, Dagmar didn’t exactly have a lot of friends. Experience had taught her that people were best kept at arm’s length. Getting too close to anyone always caused trouble.
Hopefully these repairs wouldn’t threaten her job. Her heart trembled a little at the thought. This family didn’t have a great record so far. She’d gone months without wages when they’d been in financial difficulties before. Ophelia had eventually seen to her getting the money she was owed, but trusting the Chattan-Blythes wasn’t easy after that. They were pretty base and had even tried to marry off Ophelia to a wealthy businessman for his cash – a businessman Dagmar knew from old: James Charlton. Her insides churned at the thought. That stupid schoolgirl crush still hurt. When she’d found out Ophelia and he might be an item, she’d made herself scarce. How could she watch that? She’d endured enough watching him going about with the prettiest girls in school. And Ophelia had to be one of the prettiest girls in the world, never mind school. Dagmar had never been able to compete with them. Except in the arena. That was where she could show them all.
But in between doing that, she had to do her job. Money didn’t grow on trees. Yes, she was a good rider, and she had rosettes and medals to prove it. People often told her she could go anywhere horsey and demand the wage she wanted. But that was easier said than done. Making a living competing was super tough. Most high-level riders came from wealthy families to start with – how else could they afford to travel and sign up for all the shows? She’d need a groom and coaches, not to mention quality horses, which were also super expensive. And at the end of the day, she didn’t have that kind of confidence. Staying put and doing the job she knew was so much easier. Adapting to change was something she’d never done well.
She sat up, engaging her core and stabilising her legs, preparing for the descent. Zephyra knew what was coming and braced accordingly ‘That’s a good girl.’
Dagmar had ridden so many horses over the years. Some she’d gelled with straight away, and Zephyra was one of them. They had a rapport and worked so well together. If only people were this easy.
As they neared the new stable block and the old steading that had been newly done up, Dagmar spotted Francesca, Ophelia’s half-sister, carrying a bucket across the yard. Francesca and her friend Caitlin often helped out at weekends. Caitlin’s dad was the builder Ophelia was now living with, an arrangement which clearly suited the girls as they got to see each other frequently. Dagmar saw in them the starry-eyed looks teenagers often had when working with horses. Once it became a job, the shine wore off a little. Stealing these moments to ride and enjoy herself was important because looking after other people’s horses was bloody hard work and she rarely got a word of thanks. Teaching riders was the same. While she liked working with the students and matching them to horses, she couldn’t abide the parental interference. So many helicopter parents just wouldn’t back off and accept she knew what she was doing.
‘Morning,’ Francesca said as Dagmar approached the yard. ‘We saw you riding like a demon, as always.’
Dagmar gave her a little smile. ‘It’s a nice day for it. And we have to use them, while we can. Likely the rain will be back any day.’
Caitlin came out of the stables and looked up. ‘I wish I could ride like you.’
Dagmar swung down from the saddle, rubbing Zephyra affectionately. ‘Keep up with your lessons and you’ll be fine. You did well the last time.’
‘Thanks.’
Dagmar scratched Zephyra’s forehead. ‘Are you two staying all morning?’
Zephyra nudged Dagmar with her nose, desperate for more attention.
‘Yeah, I think so.’ Francesca looked at Caitlin and flicked her long blonde hair over her shoulder. Like her sister, she had that unmistakable upper class look about her, with her smart clothes and immaculate hair. Dagmar had been around people like that all her life but never mastered the easy elegance. She had the riding clothes; she was tall, slim, and blonde, but somehow, she didn’t fit. No one would ever mistake her for one of the Chattan-Blythes or call her the names they called Ophelia – beautiful, glamorous, hot, leggy, stunning, immaculate. The things people called Dagmar hadn’t improved much from “horse girl”. She often got “stable girl” from visitors and had overheard people calling her awkward, skinny, gaunt, and similarly unflattering names.
‘I need to go out for a bit.’ Dagmar led Zephyra towards the stable. ‘As soon as I’ve untacked and groomed Zephyra.’
‘Cool,’ Caitlin said, and Dagmar was pleased she asked no more, because she didn’t discuss her private life with anyone if she could possibly help it – not that there was much to say about it – and it always felt insignificant when she heard the things other people got up to.
The drive to Glenbriar, the nearest town, took about ten minutes, occasionally more, if she got stuck behind a tractor, which was always a possibility in this part of Scotland. Most of the farmland was on hills around Loch Briar, but the majority of the landscape was woodland. The trees still clung to their wintery branches, though a few buds were visible on close inspection. But the bright skies surrounding the loch made for beautiful reflections even on a chilly March day. Dagmar might have appreciated it more if the weight on her chest wasn’t so heavy.
The message she’d received from her mum the night before suggested that all was not well in the state of The Cosy Bean Café. Her mum had run it for years, since before Dagmar could really remember. Apparently, she’d been three when her mum had taken it on but she had no memory of a time before that. It was as much a part of her life as the horses.
Something about the message set the worry worms to work, eating into Dagmar’s thoughts.
Recently, things had been tough for her mum. The bargain house she’d bought in Glenbriar was a cash drain. Money was flowing down it and there was no getting it back. It needed so much work just to keep it habitable.
Dagmar parked her old pickup truck on the road outside the café and took a deep breath before heading for the door. Maybe it was just the mood she was in but the familiar pale yellow paintwork around the door looked tired and chipped. What had seemed like a modern sign nearly thirty years ago now seemed dated. This haven that her mum had set up as a little nod to their Danish roots, serving a slice of hygge to the Scots before it was even a “thing” in this country, didn’t look as welcoming as it should.
Pushing open the door, she was momentarily distracted by the warm pastry and cinnamon scents, so reminiscent of her younger days here. But her eyes lingered on the faded floral wallpaper. The wooden floor creaked underfoot. Once-vibrant curtains now hung limp at the window, their colour dulled. A sorry sight really, though not as sorry as the fact that no one was inside. March was still on the edge of the tourist season, but where were the locals that used to pop in on Saturday mornings looking for pastries and coffee?
Her mother, Dotty, was behind the counter, wiping the surface almost manically.
‘Dagmar, you’re here. So glad. Turn the sign to closed, and lock the door, will you? Not that it’ll make much difference.’
‘What’s happened?’ Dagmar flipped the sign and pushed the lower bolt into the floor.
Dotty lifted two mugs and brought them to the table, giving Dagmar a hug as soon as she laid the mugs down. ‘Business has been so slow of late.’ She returned to the counter and brought over a plate with her trademark mini pastries filled with jam, raisins, choc chips and custard. They all looked delicious. ‘There’s so much competition in town.’ She sat with a sigh and Dagmar followed her, taking the seat opposite. ‘The other cafés are more modern. They have the best facilities. I can’t afford that. And this building is so old. It has charm, yes. But the landlord doesn’t pay for the repairs. Now he wants to kick me out and sell the property. I don’t know what to do.’ Her mother still retained a little of her Danish accent, though years of living here had dulled it and it could pass for as a slightly quirky Scottish accent if you didn’t know any better.
Dagmar frowned and sipped on her coffee. This was worse than she’d thought. Without this café, her mum had nothing except a falling down house. Dagmar couldn’t have her living in the trailer with her. It was already too small for one person. ‘Can’t they give you more time?’
Dotty shook her head. ‘Time for what? Even if they do, how do I get more business? I can’t move with the times if I can’t afford it. Every penny I make goes into the house. I’ve already used the money you gave me, but it’s not enough and I don’t want to ask you for more. I know you don’t have enough for yourself, never mind me. Everything has got so messy. I should be the one providing for you.’
Dagmar’s heart sank. The café meant everything to her mum. It was more than a business; it was a piece of her soul. ‘I’ll always help if I can. You spent so much on me when I was younger.’ Horses weren’t cheap, neither was the pony club or the travelling to all the events she took part in. Her mum had never begrudged a penny of it.
‘No, no. I don’t want you to think you owe me anything. I don’t want your money, just ideas about what I can do.’
Dagmar clenched her fists under the table, her mind racing. She had to find a solution, but this kind of thing wasn’t her strongpoint. She had no idea how to run a business or raise funds. If she was closer to Ophelia, she could ask her for ideas, but she didn’t want it to sound like she was asking for a handout, especially when the Glenvorneth Estate was only just starting to make money itself. ‘What other ways are there to raise some money?’ she asked.
Dotty smiled weakly, shaking her head. ‘I only wish I knew.’
Dagmar tapped the table and sighed. ‘Well, I’ve seen some local businesses on social media asking for community support before. They post in local groups about how long they’ve been around and how important they are. Maybe we could try something like that?’
Dotty tilted her head and pulled a pout. ‘Would that really work? I’m not sure who would care.’
Wasn’t that the truth? Dagmar had spent her high school years panicking her unpopularity would filter down to her mother’s business, but it hadn’t. They hadn’t lived in Glenbriar back then. Her mum had bought the tumbledown house here after Dagmar had left school and taken the job on the Glenvorneth Estate.
Back then, the café had thrived, and Dotty employed people to run it at weekends so she could take Dagmar all around the country to events and horse shows. Had anyone at school even realised her mum ran a café? No doubt some people knew. But they’d lived in Perth and Glenbriar had seemed a long way, though it was only about a thirty-minute drive. Dotty had commuted, but it made more sense to live nearby.
Would any of her online acquaintances even be vaguely interested if she posted about the café? They were mostly people from the horse world who didn’t all live in the area. She rarely saw people she’d been at school with, and she actively avoided them on social media. Some had the gall to send friend requests. Why would she want to be friends with people who’d taken pleasure in making her life a misery?
If she posted, would the people she avoided see her name and laugh? Maybe it would have a detrimental effect on the café. It wasn’t like she was a celebrity or had anything special about her to make people interested.
‘I like the idea,’ Dotty said. ‘If we can do that, it might drag us into the modern world.’
But what would they say? The Cosy Bean Café, while charming, was definitely showing its age. The other cafés in town had sleek interiors, Wi-Fi, and fancy coffee machines.
Dagmar squeezed her mother’s hand. This woman had sacrificed so much for her, and this was Dagmar’s time to step up. ‘We’ll get through this. Somehow. We have something these other cafés don’t. Heart. Character. And your pastries are still the best in town.’
Dotty chuckled softly. ‘You always were my biggest fan. It’s definitely worth a shot, but I don’t know much about social media. Could you help me with it?’
‘Sure.’ How could she refuse? She’d offered after all, but she wasn’t particularly tech-savvy herself, and the idea of putting herself out there still squeezed her chest until she struggled to breathe. ‘I’ll do my best. I just don’t… Well, I’m not sure people will read anything I post.’
‘I’m sure they will, sweetheart.’ Dotty looked at her with sad eyes. ‘You need to stop thinking people automatically won’t like you. I know you had a horrible time at school, but you’ve made good. You’re one of the best riders around. Put the doubts away. I’m sure there are lots of people out there who know you and respect you and will be very interested in what you have to say.’
Dagmar nodded, hoping that was true. But putting the doubts away wasn’t that simple. Maybe her lack of close friends was her own fault, but trusting people was something she found so difficult.
‘Ok. Let’s start with some photos of the café and the pastries.’ Fancy write-ups had never been her thing, and she couldn’t rely on herself to say anything clever or smart, so she’d just have to use plain words to tell it like it was.
‘Thank you, sweetheart.’ Dotty’s smile returned, though it didn’t wholly light her eyes. Her hair that had once been long and so blonde had lost its warmth and was like faded straw. Her skin, too, had lost its luminosity and was pale and lined with care. ‘Let’s have another pastry and then get started. I’ll get us some fresh coffee to go with it.’
As her mother busied herself behind the counter, Dagmar pulled out her phone, an ancient, bashed thing with a cracked screen, took some photos, and started typing out a message.
This is a difficult post for me to write, but I hope you will take a moment to read it.
The Cosy Bean Café has been a beloved part of Glenbriar for as long as I can remember. My mother, Dotty, has poured her heart and soul into this place for nearly thirty years, creating a little bit of hygge from her native Denmark in the heart of Scotland. It’s a place where friends can meet, families gather, and tourists can enjoy a bite to eat on a busy holiday. It’s not just a café; it’s a piece of our community’s heart.
Unfortunately, we’ve faced some challenging times recently. Business has been slower than ever, and we’re struggling to keep the doors open. The newer, more modern cafés in town have been drawing customers away, and while we understand the appeal of new and shiny, it’s left us in a tough spot. The building is old and charming, but it requires repairs that we simply can’t afford right now. Without your help, we might have to close our doors for good.
We know money is tight for everyone, but we’re asking for your support. If you’ve ever enjoyed a cup of coffee, one of our famous Danish pastries, or eaten lunch in our little café, please consider visiting us again. Every purchase, every visit, helps more than you can imagine.
Please, if you can, come by for a coffee, tell your friends about us, or even just share this post to spread the word. Your support means everything to us, and together, we can keep the Cosy Bean Café open for many more years to come.
Thank you for reading and for your continued support.
After adding the pictures, her thumb hovered over the “post” button for a moment. She took a deep breath before she pressed it. There. Gone. She’d done it on one forum. She scrolled through a couple of other groups, posting it there too.
Now what? Watch and wait? Would customers start flocking through the door the second they opened it? Or would the post simply vanish into the social media ether and get lost among everything else that was on there?
The momentary buzz accompanying her post fizzled away. If that little plea didn’t work, what else could she do?