Chapter 8
After another night’s surprisingly good sleep, Reece’s positivity has got into me too, and I’m determined to redeem myself for my parking ineptitude yesterday.
I am a competent adult, and if I’m going to be staying here, I need supplies and many of them.
Even though I want to keep a low profile, I can risk venturing into the village for some shopping, and something for Reece to apologise for almost killing him two days in a row.
The van’s solar panel has done its job, and I wake up to gloriously hot water, a proper shower that doesn’t cut out halfway through, a steaming hot mug of tea, and the remaining biscuits that Reece brought when he came down to have his leg checked last night, and now I feel almost civilised again, and like I can take on the world.
As long as the world doesn’t involve driving anywhere in this monstrosity, that is.
The walk into the village takes about ten minutes down winding lanes and under leafy trees at the height of their summer greenery, which gives me time to practise what I’m going to say if anyone asks awkward questions about why I’m here.
‘Just passing through’ sounds reasonable.
‘A quick self-sufficient holiday!’ with a cheery, non-suspicious smile should work.
From what I remember of childhood holidays, this is the sort of place where outsiders will not go unnoticed, and the last thing I want to do is attract attention.
Thimblenouth is exactly the sort of village you’d see on a biscuit tin – the kind you’d think was a painting rather than a real place.
Stone cottages with arches of roses outside the doors, neatly trimmed hedges and perfectly maintained gardens, an old church that’s probably been here since there was a BC in the date and is undoubtedly still in use every Sunday.
There are no big chain shops. Each one is independently run and blends seamlessly into the village look, housed in the same stone cottages as the residential dwellings, and every shop looks like you’re about to walk into someone’s house, and I have to double-check the signage to make sure I’m not about to invite myself into someone’s kitchen and disrupt their breakfast.
The village shop is a quintessential old-fashioned place that sells everything from newspapers to wellington boots and has at least three different types of local honey on the shelves.
A bell jangles as I push open the door, and the woman behind the counter looks up from arranging a display of homemade jams.
‘Ey up, dear,’ she says with a smile. ‘You must be the lass with the campervan at the Kingfisher Arms.’
I freeze halfway through reaching for a shopping basket. ‘I am?’
It comes out sounding like I don’t even know myself.
Am I the lass with the campervan at the Kingfisher Arms?
Even though I was expecting a bit of local curiosity, I wasn’t expecting it this soon, and everything I’ve practised on the way immediately vacates my head, leaving me with no idea what to say.
The woman is probably in her late sixties and is wearing a floral apron and has her hair set in pretty waves. She leans forward conspiratorially. ‘Bright green thing, isn’t it? Difficult to miss.’
‘Oh. Yes. That’s… me,’ I stutter. So much for keeping a low profile. ‘Dolly.’
Did I even mean to introduce myself? I briefly wonder if I should use a fake name, but I don’t want to feel like I’m hiding anything here, or anything more than I’m already hiding anyway.
‘I’m Lettie. Been running this shop for donkey’s years, or donkey’s decades, some might say.’ She beams at me. ‘And you, my dear, are the most interesting thing to happen in Thimblenouth since the vicar accidentally set fire to his cassock on one particularly exciting Sunday morning in January.’
‘That’s… lovely,’ I manage, wondering if it’s too late to back slowly towards the door.
I’ve only been here for two days. How do they know me already?
Is it possible that they have seen the campervan on the news?
Has Jared somehow tracked me down and handed out ‘have you seen this woman?’ flyers?
Am I about to see a big wanted poster with my face on it plastered across the village notice board?
‘Oh, but we’re all dying to know how you managed it!’ Lettie continues, oblivious to my mounting panic.
‘Managed it?’ I echo, my mind racing through all possible meanings of ‘it’ in this context.
‘Getting permission to park there. Very mysterious, our new property owner. Very mysterious indeed.’
My stomach turns itself in an uncomfortable knot. ‘New property owner?’
‘Oh yes! Bought the whole place over two years ago. Paid the asking price without any haggling too, from what I heard at the post office.’ Lettie’s eyes light up with the gleam of someone about to share really good gossip.
‘And only started work on it this year. But here’s the thing – none of us have met him! Not a soul! Can you believe it?’
‘That’s… unusual?’ The temptation to run away makes even the out-of-date Pot Noodles seem tempting.
I’m trying to think of a non-suspicious way to put my shopping basket back and leave immediately.
The last thing I need is to be involved in any village gossip because, sooner or later, I am bound to be the subject of it, and not in a good way.
‘Unusual? It’s downright suspicious! What sort of person buys somewhere so special in the heart of a village like this, leaves it to fall into rack and ruin, and then sends some mysterious builder to do the dirty work and doesn’t even have the courtesy to introduce himself?
’ Lettie starts coming around the counter, looking like she’s plotting something.
‘But you must have met him! He must have given you personal permission to stay there!’
‘Well, not as suc—’
‘Come on then!’ Lettie grabs my arm with surprising strength. Clearly stacking shop shelves is an underrated workout. ‘The girls are having their morning coffee outside. They’ll want to hear all about this!’
‘The girls?’
‘Oh, you’ll love them! Wilma runs the village committee and Madge knows everything there is to know about the comings and goings in Thimblenouth. We’ve been trying to solve the mystery of the Kingfisher Arms for months!’
Before I can protest, Lettie has hooked her arm through mine and steered me out of the shop, closed the door behind us, and is marching me across the village green.
My empty shopping basket dangles uselessly from my fingers as she propels me towards a closed building.
Whatever it was once, all that remains is a couple of strings of moth-eaten bunting hanging in its dusty windows.
Two women are sitting at a table outside with a big Victoria sponge on a cake stand, and a pretty china teapot and a stack of dainty cups.
‘Wilma! Madge!’ Lettie calls out with glee. ‘Come and meet our mysterious camper! She’s got permission to stay at the Kingfisher Arms!’
‘Has she indeed?’ The taller of the two women, Wilma, has silver hair scraped back into a severe bun and a gaze so steely that I can imagine her reducing grown men to tears. ‘How very interesting.’
Madge, who’s shorter and has a jolly face and a head of bouncing white curls, pushes out an extra chair for me. ‘Sit down, dear! This is tremendous, we’ve been absolutely gasping to know what’s going on up there!’
I find myself deposited in a chair before I can protest, the shopping basket banging against my thighs as Madge puts a cup in front of me and fills it with tea from the teapot, and Wilma watches me with such a suspicious look that she is almost certainly a retired police detective.
‘Now then.’ She leans forwards. ‘Tell us everything. When did you meet the owner? What’s he like? We were hoping he’d change his mind about converting the pub into a house given all the resentment in the village, but he doesn’t seem to give a monkeys. He must be a horrible, selfish man.’
‘I… well… it’s complicated,’ I stammer, wondering if there’s an easy way to explain that I’m actually camping there illegally in a stolen van and, contrary to popular belief, definitely don’t have permission to do so.
‘Complicated how?’ Madge’s ears prick up.
Lettie returns from a shed at the side of the building with another extra chair and sits down to join the interrogation, seemingly unconcerned about leaving her shop to fend for itself. ‘Yes, spill the beans! What’s he like? Is he as awful as we think?’
‘You think he’s awful?’
‘Well, what else are we supposed to think?’ Wilma says grimly.
‘Despite solemn promises that the pub would always be a pub, he snatched it up to prevent anyone else from buying it, and then he disappeared for years like a chuffin’ ghost. No introduction, no explanation, no consideration for the people who’ve lost the heart of their community. ’
‘It’s been terrible for business,’ Madge adds sadly.
‘That pub brought people to the village. Families would come for Sunday lunch, walkers would stop for a pint and a sandwich. They’d take longer on the walks because there was somewhere to have a break, and then they’d come back here and browse the shops.
Tourism hasn’t been the same since it closed, especially with the car park shut down to visitors. ’
What? It takes all my willpower to keep my face neutral, but internally, I’m sinking in quicksand.
The car park isn’t open? Is that why Reece felt so safe camping there?
Is that why the only other occupant is a skip?
Why wouldn’t Reece tell me that and send me on my way, especially after our first meeting?