New Beginnings for Bryony Bennett

Chapter One

It was darned hard not to punch the air or run around the room like a demented hen when you’d just been given the good news she had. Instead she rose—oh so dignified, and totally at odds with her normally less than sedate image of long skirts, floaty blouses and hair that didn’t look tidy for more than three minutes at a time - and glanced across the desk to the man who sat there.

Let’s hope my knees don’t give way. Not the look I’m aiming for. Did he really say what I think he said?

He stared back impassively, and for once she didn’t hate the prim, work uniform suit she wore. She had gone straight to the solicitor’s office when she finished her shift and hadn’t found time to change into something less constricting. Now she was glad of that.

Bryony Bennett forgot all the nasties of the last year. The replacement boiler she’d purchased to the detriment of her new car fund. The aborted holiday, when Matt the rat showed his true colours, and allegedly forgot to remove his other girlfriend’s knickers from his pocket. Bryony had slapped him hard enough to see her hand print on his cheek, looked downward and said in a scathing tone, ‘I would knee you somewhere delicate except it’s too tiny to find’, before throwing his car keys into the canal and storming off. Although, with hindsight, the knicker scenario might have been on purpose, they’d been arguing a lot in the previous weeks, and several months later she was relieved it had happened when it did. Especially when she heard from a friend of a friend of his that the other girlfriend had ditched him. He’d be sniffing around like a truffle hound in autumn if he knew of her good fortune. And she knew however hard she tried to keep it quiet, somehow the news would get out. Things about money seemed to be absorbed by osmosis and shared.

If she added the week in the rain she had in Suffolk, instead of a week of sun in Tenerife after she’d torn up her ticket and thrown it over him like confetti, and he’d rebooked the seat for his new girlfriend, she had a right to be satisfied things had turned out as they did. Bryony had heard from the same friend of a friend of his that the woman had overdone the sun on their first day and had spent the rest of the week moaning. Was she a bitch to be secretly pleased?

Probably and I don’t care. Milly would be happy he’s gone. She never rated him.

Somehow Bryony even managed not to well up as she thought of her fun loving, outrageously dressed godmother, who died in her sleep after what she’d called the best day ever. A tandem parachute jump with a twenty something hunk called Antonio, followed by a ride in a speedboat, and a dance with her heartthrob—and current lover—an impossibly handsome Cuban salsa dancer called Juan-Carlos Orguiza twenty years her younger.

That made her think of something.

‘You mean?’ She daren’t put it into words in case she jinxed it. Just say it. ‘All of it?’

He nodded. ‘After expenses of course, which I assure you are modest. Your godmother was a very forward thinking lady.’

She had another thought. ‘What about J-C O?’ Her godmother’s nickname for him.

‘He was unable to attend, but his share has been accounted for, a very substantial share. The rest is yours.’

‘Pinch me, will you? So I know it’s not a dream.’

The grey haired, stereotypical solicitor beloved of nineteen twenties novels shook his head and almost smiled. ‘No need, you are indeed awake.’ He steepled his hands and rested his chin on them. Was he going to offer a cup of weak Earl Grey and some seed cake next?

‘Apart from Mr Orguiza’s bequest, your godmother left you everything. To be precise, her savings, her house and all her assets, after all bills are paid. You are, if I may say, a very wealthy woman. I do hope you will let Struthers, Startwell and Stott advise you.’

Were all solicitors carved from the same block of wood? At least, if they were over fifty? Having been introduced to all three members of the firm she would swear they were interchangeable. This one was Startwell… she thought. He actually smiled on occasion, or at least looked less grim than the other two.

‘Oh, you may say it,’ Bryony assured him. She’d ignore the rest until that bit sank in. ‘Twice if you want.’ A thought struck her. ‘Ah, what’s wealthy exactly?’

He frowned. Had she committed some solecism she knew nothing about? Surely it was okay to ask? After all, if it was a couple of hundred thousand that would be rather nice, but not go a long way once she’d paid her mortgage off— if she could pay her mortgage off—and babied her aged sports car to last another year.

‘Well, now. It seems Miss Millet dabbled.’

‘Dabbled?’ She thought Milly more into pottery than paints. ‘You mean, painted or something?’ Did she sound as confused as she was?

‘Or something. She played the stocks.’

The slang sounded wrong coming from him, and Bryony wondered if she had heard him correctly. ‘Er, did you say stocks or slots?’

‘Stocks.’

‘Yeah, that’s what I thought you said.’ A picture of her octogenarian godmother, in a flowing skirt, oversize butterfly sunnies, and platform heels, playing a machine somewhat like the pinball wizard in the rock opera Tommy, had flashed into her mind with the thought of slots. She’d just watched the film for the umpteenth time the week before and had a wee weep afterwards. It was a favourite of both her mum and Milly. Aged hippies if ever there were any. Their attitude had rubbed off on her. ‘Was she any good?’

He smiled, and looked half human, not a robot. ‘Well, now let me just say, at a very rough estimate her estate after tax is in the region of two million, six hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Give or take. I’d call that very competent.’

The butterflies in her stomach did a war dance, goose pimples jumped on goose pimples and the room swayed. Bryony swallowed and hoped to hell she wasn’t going to pass out or throw up.

Give or take what?

‘Of course, that total depends on how much the jewellery would raise if you sold it,’ he added. ‘Gold, gems… the value goes up and down and in and out of fashion. Thus, a conservative estimate.’

‘Ahhh.’ She had to clear her throat several times to even manage to utter an inanity. ‘Right.’

Bryony sat down with a thump and held onto the end of the desk for balance. Her legs were now rubbery; her stomach had taken on a life of its own, got rid of the butterflies and was performing back flips instead. A weird, unpleasant sensation. She’d never fainted in her life and if this light-headed, nauseous sensation was what you experienced in that situation, then she didn’t want to.

The solicitor pushed a bottle of water into her hands. ‘Drink this. I realise this must be something of a shock to you.’

‘Say that again slowly,’ she said, once she regained the ability to speak. ‘Not the shock bit, let’s take that as given.’ Since when had Milly dabbled? Or had jewellery… or well, been a millionaire? She certainly never mentioned any of it or that she intended to leave anything to Bryony. Why should she? As far as Bryony was concerned, Milly had done plenty for her whilst Bryony was growing up. But a millionaire? Or should that be millionairess? Either way it just seemed too far-fetched to be believable.

And bloody hell, it seemed she was one now.

‘Cash poor, asset wealthy,’ Startwell, or whoever said in an austere voice. ‘You’ll need to think very carefully about what you want to do.’

Blimey, he was full of the platitudes. ‘I will, yes, thank you, well, right.’ Shut up Bry.

Half an hour later, her head was crowded with facts and figures, her wrist ached with signing things, and her head throbbed with trying to assimilate too many facts at once. Bryony bit her lip, took a deep breath, and made her farewells, along with the oft repeated, ‘yes, I’ll think about things, thank you, yes, right, speak soon, goodbye…’ and clutched an interim cheque for more money than she made in half a decade. He’d offered a bank transfer for it all, but she wanted the bit of paper with the right sort of noughts on it as well. Even if it did take days to clear. Luckily, he’d also had the nous to sort out some money to be available there and then. The thought of how much cash she carried was enough to give anyone palpitations. She wore her shoulder bag under her coat.

And he said I was cash poor. Doesn’t seem so to me. It showed how people’s idea of wealth differed.

Time to get home, via the bank and… she stopped dead in the street and caused two gossiping women, one guy on a skateboard, and a dog weeing up a lamp post to move out of her way. The poor dog looked in agony as he almost crawled to a convenient clump of grass in the gutter and used that instead. The guy swore at her and the women glared and tutted. She ignored them all.

Good God, would the bank think she was money laundering? What a stupid expression. It always made her think of washing lines with dripping tenners pegged on them. Furtive looking men scrubbing fivers with a nail file and patting them with kitchen roll. Would the teller scrutinise her and ask for help? Get someone to say no money until we’ve investigated you? Lord, she hoped not. How mortifying that would be.

In the event, it was fine. She handed over a letter from Startwell—it was him she’d dealt with evidently—written on very impressive headed notepaper. The bank manager, who usually looked sorrowful if he ever saw her, almost bent over backwards as he watched the teller deposit the cheque into Bryony’s account and give her the three hundred pounds she asked for. She wasn’t going to start flashing the cash she had in her bag, but mad money sounded good. As did a taxi home. Sod the tube, today she’d sit in the traffic jams and let someone else do the swearing. It would be a nice extra to a fantastic day. Bryony exited the bank and looked for the nearest supermarket. She needed a lime to go with the large gin—or three—she intended to have. Damn it, she might even splurge on a known make of the spirit instead of the supermarket’s finest own label.

‘So… do I curtsey, genuflect, or tap you up for a loan?’ Maisie MacLean asked. Maisie and Bryony had been best friends since their first day at school, when Maisie shoved a sprig of holly up Bryony’s nose and she retaliated with a worm down Maisie’s neck—neither were girly girls. She raised her glass of gin and tonic with its slice of lime, not lemon, in the air and waved it about in a salute. They both preferred lime unless it was a night out and one of the fancy G and T’s they might treat themselves to. Then it was what the bar tender suggested. ‘Can I stroke you for luck? I mean I’ve never knowingly known a millionaire before and a bit might rub off on me.’

‘Nor have I, and it’s a bit unnerving to say the least.’ Bryony tucked her straight, red - as in carrots - hair behind her ears. She’d never had a moment’s hesitation about sharing her news with Maisie. They shared both good and bad and it would have been an insult not to explain her new-found freedom. Bryony grimaced, as one errant carroty strand got free and almost dipped into her glass.

‘You’ll be fine,’ Maisie said with confidence. ‘After whatshisface, you know he whose name will not pass my lips, I know you can sniff out good, bad and arsehole no problem. And if not, just ask me to do it for you.’

Her no-nonsense approach made Bryony grin. ‘Done.’ She savoured the sharpness of the gin and lime and the fizz of the tonic as she sipped her drink. If she didn’t, she’d be tempted to swallow the lot in three hefty gulps and be sozzled in half an hour. ‘Here I am a twenty…’

Maisie raised her eyebrows.

‘Okay only just, so, an almost thirty something, who - until a day ago - worked in a bookshop, needed to eke out a quarter of my months wage for three quarters of the month, who is suddenly, on paper, rich. But I still have next to no money, and a poorly car.’ She didn’t mention the notes that were now tucked in her knicker drawer. They were very definitely for emergencies only. It sounded silly, but somehow if she didn’t talk about it, maybe she wouldn’t think of the cash as available. ‘And a month’s notice to work.’ No way could she leave her colleagues in the lurch.

‘Yeah, but when it’s not just on paper?’ Maisie refilled both their glasses and drank hers in three gulps. She’d walked over to Bryony’s, saying the unnerving text she’d received from her that read, ‘ I need you now not 7 pm bring tonic I forgot it ,’ made her think she’d be better off without her car. ‘You’ll need an agent to protect you from grasping blokes and gimmies. I’d offer but we both know one sob story and I’d be toast. Then what?’

‘God knows. Buy more gin maybe?’ Hell’s bells what a thing to say. I am not a gin-guzzling sot. Not yet. ‘I’m going to sell it.’

‘The gin?’ Maisie studied her glass. ‘It’s empty.’

‘You know where the bottle is,’ Bryony pointed out, as her hair fell forwards again. She fished a bobble out from her pocket and made an untidy ponytail. ‘And no, not the gin, you nit. The house, houses, maybe. Move to a house I really like, not just one I can afford on a low wage.’

‘Not away? Who will I moan to?’

‘Me, as ever. You’ll not get rid of me.’

‘Thank goodness. What else?’

‘Fix the car. Indulge in a spa day.’ She stopped for a second. ‘No, scrub that.’

Maisie guffawed. ‘They’d do that.’

‘Which is why I’m scratching that off my maybe list. I don’t want pummelling or scrubbing.’

Maisie nodded. ‘Each to their own, I’d love it. A day where no one is expecting me to be teacher, or whatever. What else?’

‘Get some indulgent chocolate, and a face cream to get rid of the spots the chocolate will give me. Buy new knickers and throw all the old tatty ones out. The world is evidently my oyster. Have another gin.’

‘Sadly, I’d better just sniff the bottle. Even if I’m not driving, it’s a school day tomorrow. Oh, the joys of being a teacher. I’ve got to be coherent and reasonably bright eyed at nine in the morning not to be out done by thirty eager six year olds,’ Maisie said, and stood up. ‘That is what I have to combat. I’ll make coffee, you keep on telling me your plans.’

‘Plans? Grief, I’m still in the, ‘pinch me to see if I’m awake not dreaming’, stage.’ Bryony put her glass down, stood up and stretched. ‘But, I reckon it’s a sign.’

‘Like a billboard? Where’s the sugar I left last time?’

Bryony sniggered. ‘Where you left it last time.’ She was slightly merry and quite happy to be so. Two glasses of anything was her limit. They often said either of them was a cheap date. In her case, Bryony thought, when she ever had time to go on one. ‘I’m going to do it, you know.’

‘You keep saying that.’ Maisie observed, as she poured water over instant coffee granules. ‘But exactly what? You’re getting muddled and confusing me.’

‘Sell Milly’s house. And this house. I’m going to move.’

Once she said it, it all became very clear… even if it was seen through a gin coloured haze. ‘I’m going to move to Devon. Me, the cats and Mop. Maybe he won’t have the incessant need to emulate Houdini there, and be a normal Old English Sheep dog, not an escapologist.’

‘And what? Keep chickens and live off the land?’ Maisie shoved a mug of coffee at her and made herself one. She couldn’t hold her drink any better than Bryony. ‘Drink this.’

‘Do the good life bit?’ Bryony took a mouthful of coffee. ‘That’s a thought, but no. Reassess my priorities and get me a man.’

And that was as likely as her getting a tattoo. She was scared stiff of needles. Did that account for her dislike of embroidery and her failure to ever get a good grade in it at school?

Several months later—selling buying, moving, and sorting out unwanted furniture and clearing out an overloaded freezer took longer than anyone ever told you—Bryony made the journey south to her new home. After motorways, ‘A’ roads, and then ‘B’ roads she’d had enough.

Sadly, the last lap - a tiny track - was not really designed for overloaded geriatric sports cars that were fondly called Milly. Named after her godmother, who had said the vehicle was as creaky as she was, the car protested with every ill-used spring grating like a fingernail on a chalkboard. Poor thing, it sounded as aching as her back felt. Long journeys in clapped out cars, especially one towing a trainer—albeit a small one—weren’t pleasant, but it was all she had.

Hold on, I can buy a new one now. Not a sports car though. Stupid though it sounded, it would be like a slap in the face to Milly…or was that a thump on the bonnet? Either way, this lane, all half a mile of ruts and furrows, wasn’t suitable for much less than a four by four, or one of those things that had its chassis jacked up. She could just see herself in one of them. Red and orange flames painted on the sides and ‘Hi Bry’ scripted around them—not.

Bryony giggled to herself at that weird and wonderful thought, changed down a gear, and went as slow as possible without stalling. A snail would beat her in a race.

If she hadn’t visited before and discovered the hard way—a flat tire on her hire car, which she changed herself with a lot of grunting and words her mother didn’t know she knew—what the track was like, Bryony would have decided she was lost. As it was, she remembered fine well it was downhill to the oak tree, turn left over the railway bridge and follow the ruts, twists and turns for about another quarter of a mile. Then she would veer off into her front garden—via an entrance blocked by three barrels and a chain—whilst the track carried on to a five-bar gate. After that, she had no idea where it went, if anywhere. A farmer’s barn or an illicit stil l — where spirits were made, and no duty paid—m aybe?

Stop thinking Regency romance and smugglers. This is 2018 not 1818.

When she was settled she’d have to do a recce. In the middle of the night with a fedora, trench coat and false moustache? She would have giggled if Milly hadn’t chosen that moment to scrape over an extra large molehill, only just dropping off it before carrying on down the slope. She had better pay attention to the route and hope the exhaust didn’t drop off as well as the radiator getting a hole in it. Either was more probable than possible.

As she turned into the euphemistically named front garden, also known, she decided, as an overgrown field, Bryony had that scary, excited tingle down her spine that told her this was it. This really was it, whatever it was. She, Bryony Mary Bennett, spinster of the parish, was now the proud owner of Cliff Cottage with an area of overgrown grass and shrubs, what the estate agent called an orchard, and a tiny walled garden, which if she were honest had sold the place to her. Plus, one barn, two sheds, one dodgy looking garage which sat in the three acres of overgrown grass, and three straggly rose bushes. Sadly, with only one rose between them.

The beginning of the rest of her life was about to start. At least the surveyor had assured her the house, although it could do with some TLC, was watertight and needed nothing more than a lick of paint. Plus, she reckoned a new kitchen. Not that there was anything wrong with three mismatched Formica cabinets and a wooden draining board, the estate agent had commented brightly, but maybe not to her taste. There was no maybe to it. That was the first room on her agenda. Even if she used packing cases as cupboards, and her garden table and chairs for everything else. At least the Aga was fairly new and worked. She could cook and eat hot food. Okay, she might not know where her saucepans were, but that was a minor detail. She hadn’t been a girl guide for nothing. Surely, she’d be able to fashion a toaster with a metal clothes hanger? If she could find one.

She made a mental note to check the oil situation. No oil would mean no hot water, and nothing to cook on with or without pots and pans. Until she unearthed her camping stove and prayed it still worked. It was a good few years since she’d used it for its proper purpose. Camping these days was a night in an all equipped tent if she really had to. With a pub and restaurant nearby.

Bryony switched the car’s engine off, pushed her sunglasses onto her nose, and wound the window down to take her fill of the view in front of her. Her house. Her home, faults and all. She wasn’t so na?ve as to think it was perfect, nothing was, but it was damned near so in her eyes.

Boy, she’d inspected some doozies before she’d found what she wanted. She was also now a great translator of estate agent-eze. Ripe for upgrade… falling down. Development potential… knock it down. Modernised to an individual style… bathroom in the lounge, open plan loo. Unusual decoration… orange walls and a red ceiling. Characterful… bats in the roof space, ceilings too low for anyone over 5’2”.

She had seen, inspected, or run away without setting foot over the threshold of some unique as to be scary properties. One particular ‘bijou residence’, a barn with an out house containing a bucket loo and not much else, ‘ripe for conversion’ almost made her sick. Especially as the estate agent couldn’t understand her reticence and kept telling her if she was going to be so particular she would never find anything to suit her—or her budget. As she’d deliberately set said budget lower than she was prepared to go, she’d smiled sweetly, and crossed the barn, and him off her list.

The fact that Bonaparte and Simister’s brochure for Cliff Cottage had nothing about ripe for renovation, quirks, cosy, or characterful, sold it to her before she’d even inspected it. It had given nothing away. Three bedrooms, lounge, dining room, kitchen and bathroom. Plus, an assortment of sheds and barns. Factual and correct. They’d even mentioned the unmade track to the house; said it wasn’t up to her to maintain it, and she did have legal access to use it. It was a public right of way. Whoever’s job it was—she assumed the local council—needed to get their finger out and grade it if nothing else.

Bryony looked at the un-quirky, un-cosy—not actually true—and un-characterful—also not true—cottage and grinned.

Mine .

It might have taken her longer than she’d hoped, but they were here at last. Well, she was. Maisie was due to follow in a few days with the cats and Mop, and the rest of Bryony’s stuff. Not that, after her purge, there had been an awful lot left, but even so there had been no way to fit in a large cat basket and an exuberant Old English Sheepdog.

Therefore, Maisie’s input was invaluable and the main reason why she’d been able to move without hiring a firm and several burly men who would want copious amounts of tea, ‘with four sugars, love’. She knew that was not fair, and probably some sort of ‘ist’, but whatever, it still made sense to do it as cheaply and simply as possible. She might now be ‘in the money’, but old habits die hard, and Bryony didn’t intend to waste her new-found wealth.

‘I’m here.’ Her voice was loud in the silence. The only noise was the ticking of the engine as it cooled, and the distant sound of a tractor somewhere. The sky was blue, not a cloud in sight. The perfect postcard picture. She blocked out thoughts of long winter nights, frozen pipes and no doubt chilblains if people still got them; and grabbed the door key from the glove compartment. With a sigh of pleasure—she’d arrived, and it was time to start the next part of her life properly—Bryony stepped out of the car, stretched, bent over to touch her toes… and screamed. Something cold and damp had goosed her.

‘What the…?’ Bryony straightened faster than she’d ever done before, swung around, and glared at her assailant. Her plait missed said assailant by scant inches. Just as well. He’d probably have bitten it in half.

The dog grinned, baring its teeth - which gave her a good indication of which end was which—and barked.

‘Yeah, yeah, don’t you know it’s rude to goose before you’ve been introduced?’

It promptly sat and gave her a paw. You’d have to be as hard hearted as set cement not to melt and drool. She wasn’t, so she did.

‘Well, aren’t you the cutie? What’s your name then?’ She scratched the dog, who she decided was definitely a Heinz 57 as her godmother would have said. Of indeterminate breed and shaggy. ‘Mop will love you.’

‘He’s Merlin and he’s a bloody pest.’ The guy who appeared out of nowhere and scowled at her, was six feet plus of ‘drop dead gorgeous, play your cards right and you can have me’ male, with a thunderous expression and an attitude she could only describe as anti something. A pity, because he ticked all the other boxes. Long black hair curling over his shoulders, blue eyes, and three day old stubble. And an earring. Pirates.com. I knew it, illicit stills and bolts of lace. Were they filming somewhere nearby and he was an extra?

Oh God…. Never mind the dog, this guy is drool central. Shut your mouth Bryony. Shoot, I probably look like a startled fish.

Drool central looked her up and down. ‘You must be the new occupier.’

Strange way to put it but who was she to argue? ‘Yep, Bryony Bennett.’ She stuck her hand out and he looked at it if it was contaminated. Okay then. When he finally took it, she was more than a little relieved he had a firm, not flabby or clammy, handshake. That really would have been the last straw. Bolshie was bad enough. ‘I’m moving in.’ Duh, speak the obvious why don’t I?

‘It looks like it. Why?’

‘What do you mean why, Mr…’ He still hadn’t introduced himself.

‘Why bury yourself here?’

‘Why do you?’

‘Do what?’ He just had to have a caramel dipped in chocolate voice, didn’t he?

‘Bury yourself here. Which, as Merlin was a one dog welcoming committee, I assume you do.’

‘Why assume that? And you didn’t answer my question. Why?’

‘Ah, I guess that’s the million dollar question, eh?’ She had no intention of enlightening him further. Grumpy sod.

‘Let me know when you want to sell. Come on, Merlin. Dinner.’ He nodded, turned on his heel, and walked back up the lane. With an apologetic, doggy look, and a woof, Merlin bounded after him.

What a pity the guy’s attitude wasn’t as attractive as the rest of him. She didn’t know who he was, but Mr Grumpy would do for now. Drop dead gorgeous didn’t exclude bad manners in her eyes.

She soon forgot about him as she unpacked the car and trailer, and marvelled at how much she’d squeezed in such a small space. It might not be the standard of furnishing she hoped to end up with, but until Maisie came with the rest of the stuff on her days off she’d manage without many problems.

Coffee and a pee, were first on the agenda, before she opened all the windows and let some fresh air into the cottage, which now would have been shut up for several weeks. In theory the estate agents were supposed to have had it cleaned and aired, but Bryony wouldn’t believe it until she’d seen it.

It was as well she had very little in the way of furniture she’d decided to bring. A big van would never get down the lane. She fished the door key out of her pocket and took a deep breath.

This was it.

The key to her future.

God help random thoughts. Where the hell had she put the kettle, the coffee and the loo roll?

The thought of no loo roll was enough to make her revise her mental list and put have a wee at the top. Never mind the errant toilet tissue, she had a packet of wet wipes and several paper serviettes from a well known chain of coffee shops that worked almost as well. Especially if she did the old Greek thing and didn’t flush them.

It was amazing how much better she felt, and the house smelt after she’d performed her ablutions, opened every door and window she was able to, found her kettle and made coffee. Sadly, only instant but the cafetiere had suffered over one of the bumps and the glass was cracked. Served her right for not waiting to find one with a plastic jug.

Instant coffee had never tasted so good. Bryony grabbed an oat bar from her handbag and wandered outside. Even though she needed to unpack, and find the blow up mattress, bedding and camping equipment before she was too tired or hungry, she was determined to take ten minutes, several deep breaths and as Milly used to say, smell the daisies.