Second Chances at the Farm on Muddypuddle Lane: a cosy, later in life, feel-good romance

CHAPTER ONE

Beth peered through her nets and frowned in annoyance. Anita, her next-door neighbour, had put her bins out again. That in itself wasn’t an issue. Where she had put them was. Why couldn’t the bloody woman put them outside her own gate?

Why did she have to butt them up against Beth’s? It made it look like Beth had double the number of bins to anyone else in the street. That blimmin’ dog of Anita’s had also woken her up in the early hours, barking its head off. And don’t get her started on the kids. The woman was forever shouting at them, screeching at the top of her voice, day in, day out. And the little sods didn’t take a blind bit of notice, so Anita might as well save her breath and save Beth from having to listen to it.

Tightening the belt of her dressing gown, Beth stomped into the hall, yanked open the front door and marched down the short path. Muttering under her breath, she dragged her neighbour’s bins back to where they belonged – in front of her neighbour’s house. And for good measure, she deposited them right in front of the gate. If the woman wanted to get out, she’d have to shift them.

Beth knew she was being petty, but since she’d retired a few months ago, she didn’t have much else to think about, and the issues with the woman next door were gradually taking on bigger and bigger proportions.

‘Oi! What do you think you’re doing?’ Anita yelled through her bedroom window.

Beth smiled sweetly. ‘Just putting these back where they belong.’

‘They’re blocking my gate. Damien will be wanting to go to school in a minute.’

From the amount of yelling the bloody woman had done just to get Damien out of bed, Beth was pretty certain the boy didn’t want to go to school at all.

‘So, move them,’ Beth called back, and turned on her slippered heel to march up the pavement and back inside.

Slamming the door with more force than was strictly necessary, she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea, and whilst the kettle came to the boil, she thought about what she would do today.

The oven could do with a good clean and there was a bit of washing in the laundry basket, but probably not enough for a full load. There was a time when the washing machine was always on the go, but that had been when the kids were little. They were all grown up now, with washing machines of their own. Except for Maisie. There wasn’t room for a washing machine in the static that she lived in with her boyfriend Adam, so when she wanted to do any washing, she borrowed Dulcie’s.

The kettle’s automatic switch knocked off, and Beth wondered why the hell she was thinking about washing machines… Oh yes, half a load. She would wait until the end of the week and see what was in the laundry basket then. If she still didn’t have enough for a full load, she would chuck in a few tea towels. They could always do with a freshen-up.

Beth made a cup of tea, mashing the tea bag against the side of the mug with a spoon.

She could pop to the supermarket later. She had a few bits to get, and it meant she would have some fresh air – although how fresh it was, being in the city, was debatable.

Dulcie had fresh air. Loads of it. Well, she would, wouldn’t she, being halfway up a hillside in the middle of nowhere. Those goats she kept didn’t smell too good though, and the chicken coop reeked.

What was she doing now, Beth wondered. There was one way to find out: she would call her. But after listening to twelve rings, Beth gave up. Her middle daughter was probably outside doing farming stuff.

How about Nikki? But when Beth checked the time, she realised that her eldest child would probably be on her way to work. Jay didn’t pick up either, and although Maisie answered after the third ring (one day that girl would have to have her phone surgically removed), she sounded out of breath.

‘Am I allowed to ask why you sound like you’ve just run a marathon?’ Beth asked.

‘We’re moving stones.’

Of course she was. What else did one do on a Thursday morning?

Maisie was obviously busy, so Beth said, ‘I’ll let you get on, but be careful you don’t put your back out. It can ruin the rest of your life, can a bad back.’

‘I’ll be fine, Mum. Stop fussing.’

Beth hung up, muttering, ‘That’s what mothers do – fuss.’ Not that any of her kids appreciated or cared just how much she worried about them. That was the privilege and arrogance of youth: they thought they were invincible. And the younger they were, the more invincible they thought they were.

Nikki, being the eldest, was starting to have an inkling that life was harsher and less forgiving than she’d assumed, but she wasn’t there yet. She would soon change her tune when she was staring middle age in the face and wondering where the grey hair, wrinkles, and saggy boobs had come from.

Where had all the years gone? One minute Beth had been dancing in the Plaz, flares flapping around her legs, a disco ball pixilating her skin and the taste of Snake Bite on her tongue; and the next, she was rubbing her bunions and wondering where she could buy support stockings. The bit in between was a blur of nappies, nits and teenage strops. In those days she had longed for an hour to herself, a bit of peace and quiet where nobody was demanding anything of her.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she grumbled, startled when she realised she’d said it out loud. Flipping heck, she was talking to herself now. Maybe she should get a cat? There was a distinct similarity between cats and daughters: they were both disdainful (scornful, even), they both treated their homes like a hotel, and they both came and went as they pleased at all hours of the day and night, but at least cats didn’t answer back.

Beth sighed disconsolately. She would give her right arm to have one of her kids answer her back right now. The house was too big and too silent, except for the echoes as she rattled around in it.

Should she find something smaller? It would certainly be less to clean. Not that there was much cleaning to be done now that her youngest had moved out.

Was it because of her that all of them had moved away? Had she been such a bad mother that at the first opportunity to leave Birmingham (and her) they’d leapt at it?

She tried to console herself with the thought that at least her daughters were still in the country, unlike Jay who couldn’t have gone any further away if he’d tried.

As long as they were happy, that was all that mattered she told herself, ignoring the inner voice that wanted to know whether she was happy. And if she wasn’t, didn’t she deserve to be?

But how could she be happy when she was so damned lonely?

Annoyed at having such negative thoughts, Beth tried to count her blessings. And she was the first to admit that she had many: she was healthy, her kids were healthy, she had a nice little pension to top up her OAP pension, she had a roof over her head…

It should be enough, but it wasn’t. Beth missed her kids, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Or was there?

Walter removed his brown corduroy trousers from the back of the chair in his bedroom, stared at them, then put them back. Even he had to admit that they had seen better days. He was going for tea at the farm, not mucking out a sheep shed, so he had better wear something halfway decent, or Otto would be giving him concerned looks out of the corner of his eye.

The same went for the checked flannel shirt and the khaki-green pullover that he liked to wear over the top.

Walter opened his wardrobe door. Now, where was the nice shirt that Nikki and Gio had given him for Christmas? Ah, there it was, hanging next to his funeral suit.

Slipping the shirt off the hanger, he put it on, stiff fingers struggling with the buttons. He had a bit of arthritis in his hands, and sometimes it played him up.

A tidy pair of trousers later, and he decided he scrubbed up okay. His hair was getting a bit long though, so when he went downstairs he put a note on the calendar as a reminder to make an appointment with the barber.

Having supper at the farmhouse was a rare treat these days. Poor Otto was usually so busy, what with running the restaurant, training new chefs for Alistair (his old boss when he used to live in London), and working on another foraging cookbook, that Walter hardly saw him.

He wished his son didn’t work so hard, but Otto had a passion which couldn’t be denied. And Dulcie was no better. The girl was holding down a day job as well as running the farm and starting a new business.

Walter reflected sadly that it didn’t used to be like that in his day. Farmers were farmers back then; they didn’t usually have to go get a second job to make ends meet. He blamed the government. And the supermarket chains for being too greedy. So many farmers today were packing it in, that very soon there wouldn’t be any farms left.

Walter continued to fret about the state of British farming all the way up the lane. He didn’t envy youngsters today – they always seemed so busy. Mind you, he hadn’t sat on his backside twiddling his thumbs. He had worked damned hard. He’d had to. Farming wasn’t a nine-to-five, Monday-to-Friday job, with weekends off.

He had bloody loved it though, despite it almost being the death of him. Walter still couldn’t bear to think about how he had managed to run up so much debt and how ill he had become as a result, without feeling ashamed. Having to get rid of the farm had been one of the darkest times of his life, but he recognised that it had to be done. It didn’t stop him from missing the old place though, and he tried to help out when and where he could. The problem was that Otto continued to fret and fuss if he thought Walter was doing too much. And whilst it was lovely that his son cared about his welfare, Walter was bored rigid.

Now that he felt better in himself (and he had done for a good long while), he missed being busy. And although he hated to admit it, he was lonely. Even Amos at the stables, who was roughly the same age as him (give or take a few years) didn’t have enough hours in the day. What with helping out with the holiday lets, looking after his great-nephew, baby Amory, and having found love with Lena, Amos was constantly on the go. Whereas Walter always seemed to be searching around for something to do.

As usual, Walter had Peg with him, and the dog darted ahead into the farmhouse, announcing his arrival. A wall of delicious cooking smells hit him when he stepped inside.

‘Hi, Dad.’ Otto was at the stove, stirring and tossing, several pans and pots on the go.

Dulcie was in the dining room, laying the table. Walter had never used that room for dining in, preferring to eat his meals at the kitchen table. It was these little changes, probably more than the big ones (such as the farm no longer having a flock of sheep), that made him realise every time he visited that this was no longer his home.

Brushing his sadness aside, he hurried towards Dulcie to give her a kiss. ‘Do you need a hand with anything?’ he asked, after he had greeted her.

‘No thanks, Walter, it’s all under control.’ Dulcie always said that, even though he could tell that it sometimes wasn’t, and he knew the reason was that she and Otto worried he might become ill again if he overdid it.

Fat chance of that! He was more likely to die of boredom these days.

‘How is the soap-making coming along?’ he asked, over dinner.

Dulcie had recently invested in a small herd of goats and was using their milk to make soap and other lotions and potions, and Otto also made the most wonderful ice cream with it.

‘Slow but steady,’ she replied, around a mouthful of aromatic beef. ‘I’ve been experimenting with new scents and adding different flowers into the mix.’

Walter had been given a few samples to try in the past, and he must admit that the soaps did smell nice. Dulcie packaged them beautifully, too. Her soap was a quality product.

‘Lavender, rose and vanilla are still my best sellers though,’ she added. ‘I’m thinking of planting some lavender bushes in the orchard, but I’m not sure whether they’ll like it there.’

‘If you want a hand, give me a shout,’ he offered.

‘Thanks Walter, but I’ve got it covered. Maisie likes planting things.’

‘How is she getting on at the old farmhouse?’ he asked.

Never in a million years did he think that the derelict farmhouse on the mountain above, could be brought back to life. He’d assumed it was too far gone, but from what Dulcie was saying, Maisie and her fella were making a go of it.

‘It’s going to take time,’ Dulcie said, ‘because they’re concentrating on getting the business side of things up and running first.’

‘Have they decided what they’re going to do with it?’

‘Kennels, I believe. But don’t take my word for it – Maisie changes her mind like the wind.’

Walter thought he might go take a look. It was a long time since he had ventured onto the hillside above the farm, and he wondered if they’d managed to improve the track that led onto the mountain. A few weeks back, he had watched with interest as a lorry had hauled an ancient static caravan up Muddypuddle Lane, wincing as it had inched its way up the narrow road.

He hoped the caravan was well insulated because the top of the mountain could be a windswept place, and he didn’t envy Maisie and her fella living in it come winter. Still, youngsters didn’t feel the cold like old folk did, and Walter couldn’t deny that he was old. His aching joints were eager to remind him every morning. But again, that could be due to sitting on his behind for most of the day. Use it or lose it, wasn’t that how the saying went?

The way Walter was going, he would seize up before long, so maybe a nice walk to the top of the mountain would do him good, and he could pop in and see Maisie and her caravan at the same time.

Beth parked her little red car in one of Picklewick’s side streets, and tried to pretend that she wasn’t being furtive. Telling herself that she had every right to be in the village (she did) and that she wasn’t obliged to tell her children that she was here (she wasn’t), Beth nevertheless scurried along the high street.

When she came to the building she was aiming for, she glanced up and down the road before darting inside.

She was scanning the properties in the ‘To Rent’ section (there were only a handful) and looking for the one she wanted, when she sensed someone approaching.

‘Those are our rental properties,’ a young chap said. By ‘young’ Beth meant that he was in his late twenties.

‘I realise that,’ she replied.

‘Is it a rental property you’re after?’

Why would she be looking at rental properties if she wasn’t thinking about renting one? She didn’t mean to send him a withering look, but his slight recoil made her aware that she must have.

‘Is it for yourself?’ he battled on.

‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

‘It’s just a standard question, madam.’

She pressed her lips together before replying. ‘Yes, it’s for me.’

‘How many beds are you after?’

Beth lost patience. ‘Let’s cut to the chase. You’ve got a two up, two down terraced on your website. I would like to take a look at it, please.’

‘Hazelnut Road? It has just become available.’

‘Can I take a look?’ Beth repeated.

‘Let me check the diary.’

‘I want to see it today. Right now, preferably.’

‘I’m not sure that will be possible. We operate an appointment system for viewings and—’

‘I’ve driven all the way from Birmingham this morning, for the sole purpose of taking a look at it.’

‘I’m sorry; if you had phoned, we would—’

‘I did. I was told I could see it today.’

‘Ah, right.’ The young man was studying his computer screen. ‘Who did you speak to?’

‘No idea.’

‘There’s nothing in the diary.’

‘Is everything okay, Zander?’ An older gentleman had stepped out of an office and was gazing at Beth with curiosity.

‘This lady says she has an appointment to view the new instruction on Hazelnut Road, but there isn’t anything in the diary.’

‘It’s vacant, isn’t it?’

‘I believe so.’

‘In that case, can you hold the fort for half an hour, whilst I take this client to view it?’

Beth breathed a sigh of relief. The organ grinder had come to her rescue, leaving the poor monkey still searching the electronic diary for a non-existent appointment.

Beth felt a smidgen of remorse for fibbing to the young lad, but not enough to come clean. Even if she hadn’t been able to wrangle a viewing, she would have peeped in through the windows. It had looked nice in the photographs, so she was quietly hopeful it would be just as nice in real life.

Ten minutes later saw the estate agent unlocking the front door and gesturing for her to step inside.

It wasn’t big, but it would do. The front door opened directly into the living room, which probably had enough space for a three-piece suite and a table to eat at. At the rear was the kitchen, leading to a small back garden with a little yard. Upstairs were two good-sized bedrooms and a bathroom. The only thing she wasn’t too keen on, was that the stairs were in the lounge. However, it wasn’t a deal breaker.

The house had been freshly painted, and was clean and empty of furniture.

‘I’ll take it,’ she announced. ‘When can I move in? Monday?’

‘It’s not that simple, Mrs Fairfax. We have to obtain references, and we’ll need to draw up a rental agreement, then there’s the deposit to discuss.’

‘Well?’ she demanded. ‘What are you waiting for? Let’s get the ball rolling.’

The sooner she moved in, the sooner she would be in the heart of her family again. Her idea to move to Picklewick was a genius one! Wait until she told her girls: they would be thrilled.

But she wouldn’t tell them just yet. She would tell them when everything was signed and sealed. It would be a lovely surprise.

Walter paused to catch his breath for what felt like the hundredth time, Peg panting by his side. She seemed equally as glad of the momentary rest, but then again, she had covered more ground than him, having dashed around from the second they’d set off.

Surely the hill never used to be this steep? Grudgingly, he supposed that the climb would seem harder – after all, the last time he had been up this way on foot would have been several years ago, and when he had been in better health. The further up the mountain he went, the more frequently he stopped to take in the view. That was his excuse, and he intended to stick with it.

Determined not to let the incline beat him, Walter pushed on, his tread slow and ponderous. By the time the old farmhouse came into view, his breathing was laboured and his legs were in agony, but he felt a spark of pride that he’d done it.

Eighteen months ago his son had been so worried about him that he had quit his marvellous job in London to come home to look after him. And look at him now – able to walk to the top of the mountain and onto the common, completely under his own steam.

But whether he would be able to get out of his chair tomorrow without help, was a different matter entirely.

Now that the gradient had lost its bite, Walter was able to pick up the pace a bit as he made his way to Maisie and Adam’s new place. Technically it belonged to Adam, because it was he who had bought it from Dulcie, but Maisie was his girlfriend (or partner, as she referred to herself) and she lived there too. Not in the farmhouse, because that was just as derelict as the last time he had clapped eyes on it, but in the caravan that he’d watched being hauled up the lane.

It was a miracle they’d managed to get it onto the mountain, but there it was, perched on breeze blocks to keep it off the ground.

He could see two figures labouring over a pile of stones, moving them from one place to another, and a wave of nostalgia swept through him. When he was a boy, this used to be a working farm. He distinctly remembered the elderly couple who used to own it. But the old chap had died, and his wife had followed shortly after, and none of their kids had wanted to take it on. Grown up and with no room for a hill farm in their lives, they had been happy to sell it to Walter’s dad for a song.

The outbuildings had been in a bad state of repair even then, but they’d been okay for storing winter feed. Nowadays there was little left of them, aside from a pile of hand-chiselled stone and the footprint of where they used to be.

‘Walter!’ Maisie had spotted him and came hurrying over. ‘What are you doing here? Does Otto know?’

‘Why should he? He’s my son, not my keeper,’ he snapped, then was instantly remorseful. Maisie was only looking out for him. ‘I came to see what all the fuss is about,’ he said, more kindly. ‘I see you’re making progress.’

‘Slowly,’ Maisie said, leading him towards Adam, who was watching him approach.

‘Have you come to lend a hand?’ Adam asked, shaking hands with him.

‘Not on your nelly. That looks like hard work!’

‘It is.’

‘That’s good stone, that is. Are you going to reuse it?’

‘You bet we are. But not here. We’re going to use it to repair the house and build an extension.’

Walter admired the young man’s vision as he talked him through their plans.

‘The biggest problem is getting materials on site. The track from Dulcie’s farm onto the mountain needs to be tarmacked, and that’s going to cost a fortune.’ Adam looked so down in the mouth, that Walter’s heart went out to him.

He scratched his whiskery chin. ‘I’ve got an idea. There’s a forestry track that runs up through the trees over that way.’ He pointed to a dark green patch of conifers that had been planted decades ago and had now grown to maturity.

The trees flanked the sides of a hill a fair distance from the old farmhouse, but the logging road running through them was hard-packed gravel and wasn’t nearly as steep as the track above Dulcie’s farm.

As Walter described it to him, Adam’s expression brightened. ‘I’ll take a look right now,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

‘No thanks, lad. I’m knackered. I’ll have a quick cuppa with Maisie while she tells me what she’s going to do with those sheds once they’re built, then I’m off home.’

‘I can give you a lift, if you like?’

Walter shook his head. ‘You get on and check out that old logging road. I got up here by myself – I’ll make it down by myself.’

He had a feeling he would regret not taking Adam up on his offer, but he was nothing if not stubborn. And he probably had more pride than was good for him. But, darn it, he hated being thought of as old and incapable, and he wanted to make himself useful.

Hopefully, he had done that today, and if that was the case having stiff joints and aching muscles tomorrow would be a small price to pay.