Chapter 2 New Beginnings
New Beginnings
Phoebe
Rain patters against my shoulders as I stand outside Ivy Cottage, breathing in the village for the first time. My ancient Volvo ticks quietly behind me, engine cooling after the six-hour drive from London, and I stretch muscles that ache from too long behind the wheel.
Mistwood is smaller than I expected. Barely more than a cluster of cottages strung along the main road with a few narrow lanes branching off into the hills.
A weathered stone church sits at one end, its bell tower dark against the low sky.
At the other end, I spot what looks like a pub, its hanging sign swaying in the wind.
Between them, a handful of shops with painted facades that have seen better days but are hanging on with a stubbornness I find immediately appealing.
Slate roofs gleam wet and dark, smoke curling from chimneys into the mist. The houses look like they’ve grown from the hillside itself, all weathered stone and mullioned windows glowing amber in the afternoon gloom.
Three months ago, I was scrolling through property listings at two in the morning, unable to sleep, desperate to find somewhere that wasn’t London.
This is what came up. This is what I chose.
The cottage itself is larger than it appears from the road, with a modern extension that houses the surgery tucked discreetly behind the original structure.
The estate agent’s photos didn’t do it justice.
Ivy really does cover most of the front wall, and there’s a painted wooden sign by the gate that reads “Mistwood Veterinary Surgery” in cheerful green letters, left by the previous owners who retired to sunnier climes.
The air smells different here. Clean and green, with hints of wood smoke and something floral I can’t quite place.
Honeysuckle, maybe, though it’s late in the season for it.
No exhaust fumes, no city grime. Just rain on stone and the faint sweetness of wet grass.
It touches something under my skin, some quiet part of me that has been waiting.
I’m fishing the keys from my handbag when a voice calls out behind me.
“You must be the new vet.”
I turn to find a woman in her sixties approaching from the cottage next door, sensible shoes splashing through puddles without concern.
She has steel-grey hair pinned in a neat bun and the sort of brisk, no-nonsense manner that suggests she’s been running things in this village since before I was born.
Her cardigan is hand-knitted, probably by herself, and she carries a wicker basket that smells of fresh bread.
“I’m Margaret Henderson,” she says, offering a firm handshake. “But everyone calls me Maggie. Welcome to Mistwood, Dr Clarke.”
“Phoebe, please,” I say, warming to her immediately. There’s something reassuring about her directness after months of tiptoeing around colleagues who’d heard about my breakup through the surgery grapevine. “And thank you. I’m glad to be here.”
Maggie’s keen blue eyes take in my rain-dampened hair and city clothes with an expression I can’t quite read. Not disapproving, exactly, but assessing. “Come far then?”
“London. I was working at a clinic in Islington.” The words come out more clipped than I intend. Even now, thinking about the practice makes my chest tight.
“Ah.” She nods as if that explains everything. “Running away from something, are we?”
The directness catches me off guard, but there’s kindness in her tone rather than judgement. In London, people spend months dancing around personal topics. Here, apparently, they cut straight through. “Something like that,” I admit.
“Well, you’ve come to the right place for a fresh start.
Mistwood’s good for that.” She gestures toward my cottage.
“The Bradfords who lived here before were lovely people, but they were getting on a bit. George’s arthritis got too bad for the heavy lifting, and Willow couldn’t manage the night calls anymore.
The village has been without a proper vet for six months now.
We’ve been driving all the way to Hexham for emergencies. ”
“I hope I can help with that.” I turn the key in the lock, pleased when it moves easily. The Bradfords left everything in good order, right down to the spare key placement. “Though I should warn you, I’m more used to pampered city cats than farm animals.”
Maggie laughs, a warm sound that makes me smile despite my exhaustion.
“Don’t worry, dear. We’ll break you in gently.
Most of what we see is routine: vaccinations, minor injuries, and the occasional birthing difficulties during lambing season.
Though I will say, we do get some... unusual cases around here. ”
Something in her tone makes me glance at her more closely. “Unusual how?”
She shifts the basket to her other arm. “Oh, you know how it is in the countryside. Animals get into scrapes, sometimes with other animals. Wild ones from up in the forest.” She nods toward the dark line of trees that rises beyond the village, stretching as far as I can see in both directions.
“Best to be careful if you’re planning any walks up that way, especially after dark. ”
“What sort of wild animals?” I ask, my training kicking in. It matters what I might be treating, what diseases or injuries to watch for.
“Oh, the usual. Foxes, badgers, deer. Red squirrels, though they’re getting rarer.” She pauses. “Sometimes larger animals come down from the deeper woods. Nothing to worry about, really, but it’s wise to be cautious.”
I follow her gaze to the treeline. The forest looks dense and old, the kind of woodland that has probably stood here for centuries. “Larger animals?”
“Feral dogs, most likely. They’ve been spotted a few times over the years.
” She’s already turning back toward her own cottage, and I get the sense I’ve pressed up against a boundary she doesn’t intend to move.
“I’ll let you get settled. But do pop round for tea tomorrow afternoon if you have time.
Around four? I’ll introduce you properly to the village. ”
I stand in the doorway watching her go. Feral dogs are certainly possible. I’ve treated enough bite wounds in London from supposedly domestic animals. But something about Maggie’s shift in manner sits oddly with me, like a note slightly out of tune.
I let it go and step inside.
The cottage is even better than I hoped.
Low ceilings with exposed beams painted white to make the rooms feel larger, a stone fireplace in the sitting room that looks like it’s been warming this house for centuries, and a kitchen that manages to be both cosy and practical.
The herb garden is visible through the kitchen window.
The built-in bookshelves lining the sitting room walls.
The Bradfords loved this place. That much is obvious.
The surgery extension is a pleasant surprise.
I’d worried it would feel tacked-on and clinical, but it flows naturally from the main house.
The examining tables are of good quality, the medical equipment is well maintained, and the built-in cabinets smell faintly of antiseptic.
That smell does something to me. It settles my nerves in a way nothing else has in months.
I spend the afternoon unpacking the essentials from my car.
Clothes, toiletries, and enough kitchen supplies to make tea and toast. The removal van won’t arrive until tomorrow with my furniture and the rest of my belongings, but I’ve packed enough to get by.
I’ve learned to live lightly recently. Easier when you’re not sure where you’ll end up.
As I work, I find myself relaxing in a way I haven’t in a long time. No phone buzzing with appointment requests, no colleagues dropping by with “quick questions” that turn into hour-long discussions, no pressure to be anywhere or do anything except exist in this quiet space.
By early evening, I’ve made the cottage reasonably livable. I’ve found sheets in the linen cupboard and made up the bed. The kitchen is stocked with the basics, and I’ve even managed to get the ancient Aga working after some trial and error.
I light a fire in the sitting room, more for comfort than warmth, and settle into the armchair by the window with a cup of tea and one of the paperbacks I grabbed from my London flat.
This is what I’ve been craving. Silence.
Space. No one asking pointed questions about why James and I split up, or suggesting, the way he always did, that I care too much about my work.
As if caring too much were the problem. As if the problem weren’t a man who wanted me to care less.
For two years, I tried to be what he wanted. It’s taken me this long to stop being angry about it.
The sound of rain picking up draws my attention back to the window. Darkness has fallen while I’ve been lost in thought, and the village lights dot the valley floor below. I can just make out the bulk of the forest in the distance, a solid wall of shadow against the cloudy sky.
I’m considering another cup of tea when I hear it.
A sound drifts down from the hills. Distant but clear in the still night air. It’s animal in origin, certainly, but unlike anything I’ve heard before. Not quite a bark, not quite a howl, but something between the two. Something wild and low that seems to carry off the hillsides.
I set down my book and move closer to the window, pressing my face to the cool glass. The sound comes again, joined by what might be an answer from a different direction. Then another, until there are several voices calling across the darkness.
Dogs, I tell myself. Large dogs, maybe a feral pack, as Maggie suggested. The acoustics in these hills probably distort things, make them sound stranger than they are.
But I stay at the window longer than I mean to, listening, until the last voice fades and the night gives back nothing but rain.